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SIX   PLAYS 
OF  THE  YIDDISH  THEATRE 


SIX  PLAYS  OF  THE 
YIDDISH  THEATRE 


By 
David  Pinski  —  Sholom  Ash 
Perez  Hirschbein  —  Solomon  J.  Rabinowitsch 


Translated  and   Edited   by 
Isaac  Goldberg,  Ph.  D. 


BOSTON 
JOHN  W.  LUCE  AND  COMPANY 


Copyright,  1916 
By  L.  E.  Bassett 


Printed  in  U.  S,  A, 


PUBLISHER'S   NOTE 


The  plays  offered  to  the  English  reading  public 
in  this  volume  are  not  presented  as  the  crowning 
achievement  of  a  national  stage  which  is  ready  to 
assume  its  place  among  the  great  theatres  of  the 
world.  The  purpose  of  their  publication  is  rather 
to  show  the  present  stage  of  development  in  a 
dramatic  literature  which  bids  fair  to  give  articulate 
expression  to  the  esthetic  sense  of  a  widely  scat- 
tered people  whose  social  isolation  has  preserved 
to  them  traditions,  customs  and  habits  of  thought 
which,  with  but  slight  variation,  have  persisted 
from  the  earliest  period  of  recorded  history  and 
are  alien  to  the  people  among  whom  they  dwell. 

Drama  springing  from  such  a  source  naturally 
limits  itself  at  the  outset  to  the  rather  elastic  class 
of  compositions  designated  as  "folk  plays,"  in 
which  a  simple  motivation  is  employed  to  depict 
incidents  of  daily  life  and  characters  drawn  from 
the  common  types  familiar  to  author  and  audience 
alike. 

The  Yiddish  Theatre  while  presenting  some  of 
its  most  characteristic  work  in  that  class  of  drama 
has  in  addition  a  background  of  Oriental  and 
Biblical   tradition   rich  in  poetic  imagery,   from 


vi  Publisher's  Note 

which  its  playwriters  draw  with  a  S3mipathy  and 
felicity  that  is  strikingly  effective. 

Unlike  the  recent  dramatic  movement  in  Ireland 
with  which  all  students  of  the  stage  are  familiar, 
the  Yiddish  Theatre  has  produced  no  masterpiece 
comparable  with,  say  "Riders  to  the  Sea,"  nor  can 
it  boast  a  dramatist  that  the  commending  genius 
of  Synge  does  not  overtop.  But  on  the  other 
hand  while  the  Irish  Theatre  considered  as  a  whole 
never  gave  promise  of  becoming  more  than  a 
reflection  of  local  characteristics  and  after  a  short 
period  of  brilliant  creation,  within  very  narrow 
limits  to  be  sure,  came  to  a  dead  halt,  the  Yiddish 
Stage  shows  every  evidence  of  a  tendency  to  so 
broaden  its  scope  as  ultimately  to  establish  a  well 
balanced  drama  of  permanent  vitality  that  will 
find  its  place  in  the  great  stream  of  drama  the 
current  of  which  flows  through  the  literature  of  all 
intellectual  peoples. 

The  reader  should  bear  in  mind  the  peculiar 
difficulties  imder  which  this  attempt  at  dramatic 
expression  has  labored  from  the  start,  the  limited 
vision  of  an  uneducated  audience,  and  particularly 
the  absence  of  a  dramatic  stage  tradition  among 
the  Jews, — a  matter  of  great  significance  to  a  people 
whose  fife  is  much  influenced  by  tradition. 

It  should  be  remembered  also  that  the  deep, 
often  terrible  significance,  associated  with  the 
observance  or  infraction  of  certain  religious  customs 


Publisher's  Note 


Vll 


affords  Yiddish  dramatists  a  means  of  producing 
intensely  dramatic  effects  that  would  be  entirely 
lost  on  an  audience  or  reader  not  familiar  with 
their  meaning. 

In  brief  these  plays,  several  of  them  somewhat 
crude,  are  representative  of  a  dramatic  movement 
in  its  making,  a  stage  of  development  perhaps  of 
greater  interest  to  the  student  of  the  drama  than 
one  in  which  the  ultimate  possibilities  of  develop- 
ment have  been  reached,  giving  as  it  does  an  oppor- 
tunity to  forecast  the  branches  that  will  expand 
their  buds  and  blossom,  and  those  that  will  shrivel 
up,  blacken,  and  in  the  end  fall  to  the  ground  to 
lose  themselves  in  the  litter. 

And  yet,  notwithstanding  these  crudities  one 
may  search  far  for  a  bit  of  drama  more  suggestive, 
in  composition  and  color,  of  a  nocturne  by  Blake- 
lock  or  Whistler  than  is  "The  Sinner,"  or  a  piece 
of  more  florid  tone,  drawn  in  with  more  sweeping 
curves  and  with  a  broader  line  than  in  the  fine 
Biblical  drama  of  "Abigail." 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 

DAVID  PINSKI I 

•  Abigail 5 

Forgotten  Souls 51 

SOLOMON  J.  RABINOWITSCH     ...  85 

She  Must  Marry  a  Doctor     ....  91 

SHOLOM  ASH 119 

,  Winter 123 

The  Sinner 151 

PEREZ  HIRSCHBEIN 177 

*  In  The  Dark 179 


DAVID   PINSKI 


By  reason  of  the  chaste  art,  the  modern  technique 
and  the  pregnant  vision  of  his  best  plays,  David 
Pinski  is  entitled  to  be  considered  the  most  signifi- 
cant of  contemporary  Jewish  dramatists.  In  him 
the  satiric  spirit  of  Goldfaden  and  the  theatrical 
talents  of  Jacob  Gordin  are  fused  in  an  artistry 
greater  than  that  attained  by  either  of  his  noted 
predecessors;  he  represents  the  latest  and  best 
phase  of  the  rapid  and  irregular  evolution  of  the 
Jewish  drama  since  the  foundation  of  the  Yiddish 
stage,  in  Roumania,in  1876  by  Abraham  Goldfaden. 

Pinski  was  bom  at  Mobilov,  Russia,  in  1872. 
Early  moving  to  Moscow,  he  was  forced  to  leave 
in  1892  at  the  time  of  the  expulsion  of  the  Jews. 
Proceeding  to  Warsaw,  he  began  to  write  the 
stories  of  proletarian  life  in  the  Russian  ghetto 
which  first  brought  him  recognition.  Pinski  soon 
went  to  Berlin  for  study.  In  1899  he  came  to 
New  York  to  assume  the  duties  of  literary  editor 
upon  a  Socialist  weekly.  He  has  also  been  a 
student  at  Columbia  University. 

"Like  all  the  more  notable  masters  of  the  modern 
theatre,"  says  Ludwig  Lewisohn,  "he  started  out  as 
a    consistent    naturalist,    embodying    in     'Eisik 


'  i  * .'  / ;  '-*';•.. ;  David  Pinski 

SchefteV  and  in  other  plays  the  struggle  and  tragedy 
of  the  Jewish  proletariat;  like  them  he  has,  in 
later  years,  cultivated  vision  and  imagination  in 
^The  Eternal  Jew^  and  ^The  Dumb  Messiah''  and 
a  series  of  exquisite  plays  in  one  act  dealing  with 
the  loves  of  King  David.  These  plays  are  written 
in  a  rhythmic  prose  created  by  Pinski  himself. 
That  prose  is  as  subtly  beautiful  as  MaeterHnck's 
or  Yeats^;  in  passion  and  reality  the  Jewish  play- 
wright surpasses  both." 

Among  the  better  known  of  Pinski's  longer  plays 
is  "The  Treasure",  produced  in  Berlin  (1910)  in  a 
German  translation,  by  Max  Rheinhardt.  The 
theme  of  the  play  is  money.  But  whereas  money, 
in  Gordin's  great  play,  "God,  Man  and  Devil", 
is  viewed  as  a  corruptive  power  against  which 
man's  better  self  instinctively  revolts,  here  it  is 
looked  upon  as  being  only  incidentally  the  root  of 
all  evil,  and  potentially  a  boon  to  the  possessor. 
For  one  day,  at  least,  Tillie's  soap-bubble  reputa- 
tion as  a  millionairess  brings  her  the  sweetest 
fruits  of  riches.  To  taste  these  she  desecrates  the 
holiest  day  in  the  calendar,  while  the  villagers,  in 
their  attempt  to  find  the  source  of  Tillie's  suddenly 
acquired  wealth,  rake  over  the  stones  of  the  ceme-  / 
tery  until  they  wake  the  dead. 

Pinski 's  work  as  a  critic  represents  some  of  the 
best  that  Yiddish  drama  has  called  forth.  His 
little  pamphlet,  Dos  Yiddishe  Dramaj  is  a  series  of 


David  Pinski  3 

articles  on  the  history  of  the  Jewish  stage  which  is 
of  far  greater  importance  than  its  modest  form 
would  seem  to  indicate;  his  discussion  of  Jacob 
Gordin  is  exceptionally  illuminating. 

Of  Pinski's  work  this  volume  presents  two  one- 
act  dramas,  Abigail  and  Forgotten  Souls. 

Abigail,  although  complete  in  itself,  is  one  of 
the  beautiful  series  of  one-act  plays  based  upon  the 
loves  of  King  David.  The  story  of  Abigail  may , 
be  found  in  I  Samuel,  XXV.  In  many  cases  the 
dramatist  employs  the  language  of  the  Bible,  word 
for  word,  so  that  in  translation  I  have  used  the 
corresponding  passages  in  the  St.  James  version. 
In  others  the  Biblical  passage  is  sHghtly  altered. 

A  comparison  of  the  Biblical  chapter  with  Pinski's 
dramatization  throws  interesting  light  upon  the 
playwright's  art.  The  characters  are  true  to 
history,  and  the  words  of  the  Biblical  narrative 
often  acquire  added  meaning  through  the  dram- 
atist's interpolations. 

From  the  standpoint  of  absolute  technique 
Abigail  may  be  said  to  represent  as  high  a  mark 
as  has  been  reached  in  Yiddish  drama. 

The  original  title  of  ^'Forgotten  Souls^^  is  ^^Gluecks- 
Vergessene,^  i.  e.,  those  who  have  been  forgotten, 
or  overlooked,  by  happiness.  The  theme  of  the 
self-sacrificing  sister  is  common  to  the  Yiddish 
stage,  even  as  the  sacrifice  of  self  for  others  is 


4  David  Pinski 

common  in  Yiddish  life.  The  development  of  the 
play  is  accomplished  with  the  dramatic  power, 
restraint  and  truth  to  life  which  has  given  Pinski 
the  leading  position  he  occupies  among  Jewish 
dramatists. 


ABIGAIL 
A  Biblical  Drama  in  One  Act 

By  DAVID  PINSKI 


PERSONS. 

David.  Abigail. 

Nabal,  a  higaiVs  husband .  Joab 
Abishur,  the  priest.  Abishai 

Ahimelech.  Asahel  , 


sons  of  Zer- 

uiahj  David's 

sister. 


A  Servant  of  A  higaiVs  A  Servant  of  NahaVs 

Suite.  Suite. 

David's  Men;  Vassals  of  Abigail  and  Nabal. 


ABIGAIL 

A  Biblical  Drama  in  One  Act 


Scene:  David's  campj  in  a  rocky  spot  of  the 
Wilderness  of  Paran.  Davidj  his  sword  across  his 
knee,  is  seated  upon  a  stone  in  the  center.  In  front 
of  him,  upon  the  earth,  sit  Ahishur  and  Ahimelech. 
Asahel,  stretched  before  David,  almost  touches  with 
his  head  the  knees  of  the  leader.  Around  and  about, 
in  various  postures,  are  David's  men,  —  exhausted, 
famished,  with  the  burning  noonday  sun  playing 
down  upon  them.  All  eyes  are  turned  toward  the 
left,  in  tense  expectation. 

Asahel. 

{To  Ahimelech,  stretching  out  his  closed  fists] 

Guess  which  hand  containeth  the  stone.    If  thou 

divinest  rightly,   then  hath  Nabal  granted  our 

request;  if  not,  then  hath  he  made  light  of  David^s 

words. 

Ahimelech. 

[Ill'hum4)redly.\ 
And  will  that  still  mine  himger? 


8       '  Abigail 

ASAHEL. 

It  is  but  a  pastime.  If  thy  stomach  be  angry, 
appease  it  with  play.  Thou  wilt  not  guess?  — 
Hm  !  —  Priest  Abishur,  thou  ?  Thou  art  indeed 
a  diviner. 

Abishur. 
Hold  bread  in  thy  fists,   then  would  I  guess 
correctly. 

ASAHEL. 

A  mouse  could  do  that  better.  Ah  !  Ye  are 
an  ill-humored  tribe;  there  is  no  playing  with  ye. 
[Turns  to  David.]  Why  sittest  so  distraught, 
mine  uncle  ?  What  thinkest  thou  ?  Whither  fly 
thy  thoughts  ?  Broodest  thou  over  the  past  ? 
Or  art  thou  piercing  the  future  ?  —  To  behold  thee 
in  thought  is  my  pleasure.  I  have  no  thoughts  of 
mine  own,  so  would  I  fain  guess  yours.  And  I 
sit  and  ponder,  and  ponder  .  .  . 

David. 

[In  subdued  laughter.] 
Ha-Ha  ! 

ASAHEL. 

Wert  thou  thinking  of  Saul  ?  Or  of  Jonathan  ? 
Or  —  or  of  Michal,  thy  wife  ?  —  Oh  !  I  have 
offended  thee  !  —  Perhaps  thou  wouldst  have  thy 
harp  ?     [Angry  laughter  is  heard,    Asahel  mocks 


Abigail  9 

it,]    Ha-ha-ha  I    [To     David.]    Sing     something. 
[The  laughter  is  repeated.] 


David. 

[Lays  his  hand  with  utmost  kindness  upon 
AsaheVs  head.] 

JOAB. 

Better  ask  him  to  gird  his  sword.  He  should 
have  followed  my  advice  from  the  very  beginning. 
Instead  of  sending  ten  of  us,  all  of  us  should  have 
gone,  and  instead  of  sending  to  Nabal  a  request, 
we  should  have  made  our  point  with  our  lances. 
Had  we  done  so,  we  would  not  now  be  sitting, 
listening  to  the  music  of  our  empty  stomachs. 

[Murmuring  of  the  men.] 

Certainly  —  Naturally  —  He  speaketh  justly. 


JOAB. 

No  asking  for  things,  say  I.     One  should  never 
ask. 


Ahimelech. 
It  would  have  been  better  had  we  sent  to  his 
wife.     She,  so  they  say,  is  as  good  as  she  is  beau- 
tiful.    But  he,  —  he  is  an  unworthy  wretch. 


lo  Abigail 

ASAHEL. 

He  will  not  dare  to  refuse  us  after  the  boons  he 
hath  received  from  our  hands. 


JOAB. 

Ha-ha-ha  ! .  .  .  Saul,  too,  received  boons  from 
our  hands,  and  continuously,  yet  did  he  —  Ha-ha- 
ha  !  And  here  we  are,  stranded  in  the  wilderness 
of  Paran,  suffering  from  hunger  and  from  thirst. 
There  was  a  time  when,  if  we  had  ceased  to  play 
our  role  as  benefactors,  we  would  now  be  serving 
the  king  of  Judea. 

David. 

[Sternly.] 
Joab  I 

[Murmuring  of  the  men.] 

The  king  of  Judea  —  Yea,  the  king  of  Judea! 

David. 
That  word  must  be  forgotten  !  As  long  as  he 
liveth,  Saul  is  our  king,  nor  I  nor  any  that  be  true 
to  me  shall  harm  a  hair  of  his  head.  He  is  the 
anointed  of  God.  The  son  of  Zeruiah  believeth 
that  he  is  true  to  me  and  loveth  me  when  he  speak- 
eth  of  kingdom.  Little  doth  he  know  how  griev- 
ously he  insulteth. 


Abigail  n 

JOAB. 

We  shall  never  understand  one  another. 

David. 
Then  keep  silence,  and  learn  to  understand  me. 

JOAB. 

Then  explain  to  me,  why  the  ten  messengers  to 
Nabal  ?  For  he  is  not  Saul,  the  anointed  of  God. 
Why  the  soft  speech  and  the  prayerful  language  ? 
"Peace  be  both  to  thee,  and  peace  be  to  thine 
house,  and  peace  be  unto  all  that  thou  hast  !  "  .  .  . 
Fie! 

David. 

King  wouldst  thou  have  me  of  Judea,  yet  askest 
that  I  stoop  to  robbery. 

JOAB. 

Comport  thyself  like  a  king  !  Give  orders  ! 
Rule  !    Command  ! 

David. 

[Sternly,] 
Then  I  command  thee  to  keep  silence.    Rouse 
not  the  impatience  of  the  men. 

ASAHEL. 

I  should  have  gone.  Thou  shouldst  have  sent 
me,  the  fleet  of  foot.  Then  had  I  long  returned 
hither. 


12  Abigail 

[Voices  from  the  left] 
They  come  !  They  come  !  —  They  come  empty- 
handed  ! 

JOAB. 

Ha-ha-ha  ! 

David. 

Empty  hand  —  [Seizes  his  sword,  arises,  and 
shouts  to  the  returning  messengers.]  Faster,  I  say  ! 
I  must  know  the  answer  immediately  ! 

[Voices.] 
Faster  !   David  must  know  the  answer  immedi- 
ately ! 

Abishai. 
[Advances  from  the  left  with  his  men.] 

David. 
Ye  return  empty-handed. 

Abishai. 
As  thou  beholdest. 

David. 

Hath  he  perhaps  sent  something  after  ye  ? 

Abishai. 
His  scorn. 


Abigail  13 

David. 
Then  surely  must  thou  in  some  manner  have 
insulted  him.  Thou  couldst  not  restrain  thy 
bitter  tongue,  and  before  thou  hadst  opened  thy 
mouth  to  speak,  thou  must  have  lost  thy  patience. 
Thou  art  after  all  a  brother  to  Joab. 

Abishai. 
My  companions  are  my  witnesses.  I  delivered 
to  him  thy  request  word  for  word,  even  as  thou 
gavest  it  to  me.  Over  the  whole  way  did  I  repeat 
it  to  myself,  schooling  myself  in  the  task  of  prayer- 
ful request.  Not  a  word  of  thine  did  I  omit  — 
my  companions  are  my  witnesses  —  nor  did  I  add 
a  single  word.  They  can  corroborate  me.  I  did 
not  lose  my  patience,  not  even  when  he  insulted 
thee  and  us.    Speak  I  the  truth,  friends  ? 

Companions. 
The  very  truth  ! 

Abishai. 
We  did  not  have  our  swords  with  us.    Thou 
tookest  them  from  us. 

David. 

[Impatiently.] 
Tell  the  story  I 


14  Abigail 

Abishai. 
I  said  to  him:  "We  come  to  thee  with  a  greeting 
of  peace  from  David,  son  of  Jesse/'  His  sour 
visage  became  more  sour,  but  I  bethought  me  of 
thy  counsel,  nor  did  my  voice  continue  in  the  least 
less  friendly.  "Thus  hath  David  ordered  us  to 
speak:  Long  life  to  thee  [A  murmur  of  resentment 
among  the  men]  and  peace  be  both  to  thee,  and 
peace  be  to  thine  house,  and  peace  be  to  all  that 
thou  hast." 

JOAB. 

[Laughs  derisively.] 
Abishai. 
"And  now  I  have  heard  that  thou  shearest  thy 
sheep;  now  thy  shepherds  which  were  with  us,  we 
hurt  them  not,  neither  was  there  ought  missing 
to  them,  all  the  while  they  were  in  Carmel.  Ask 
thy  young  men  and  they  will  show  thee.  Where- 
fore let  my  young  men  find  favor  in  thine  eyes; 
for  we  come  in  a  good  day.  Give,  I  pray  thee, 
whatsoever  cometh  to  thy  hand  unto  thy  servants 
and  to  thy  son  David." 

Joab. 
"Thy  son  David  !  Thy  son  David  !" 

Abishai. 
Thus  spake  I  unto  him,  word  for  word,  and  in 
the  most  abject  prayerful  manner.     [To  his  com- 
panions.]   Is  it  not  true  ? 


Abigail  15 

A  Companion. 
We  burned  with  shame,  so  beggarly  was  his 
demeanor. 

Abishai. 

[Between  his  teeth.] 
And  oh  !  how  it  boiled  within  me( 

David. 

[Impatient,] 
And  then  ? 

Abishai. 
He  turned  away  from  us,  and  with  angry  scorn, 
departed. 

David. 

[Raising  his  sword.] 

Abishai. 
Now  Cometh  the  worst.  We  lay  down  upon 
the  earth  and  resolved  to  wait  for  a  clearer  and 
more  wordy  reply.  And  lo  —  the  reply  came. 
We  had  well  rested  ourselves  from  our  journey, 
and  he,  no  longer  able  to  endure  the  sight  of  us, 
came  in  great  anger  and  shouted  wildly:  "Who  is 
David,  and  who  is  the  son  of  Jesse  ?  There  be 
many  servants  nowadays  that  break  away  every 
man  from  his  master  !" 


i6  Abigail 

JOAB. 

What  !  And  he  spake  thus  ? 

Abishai. 
"Shall  I  then  take  my  bread,  and  my  water, 
and  my  flesh  that  I  have  killed  for  my  shearers 
and  give  it  unto  men,  whom  I  know  not  whence 
they  be  ? 

[Stops  suddenly,] 

David. 

[Hoarsely.] 
Well,  continue  ! 

Abishai. 
That  is  all.    He  left  us,  and  we  —  obeyed  thee. 
We  departed  without  punishing  him.  —  But  we 
have  our  swords  — 

David. 

\Wiih  the  full  strength  of  his  voice.] 
Gird  ye  on  every  man  his  sword  !  [Commotion 
in  the  camp.  David* s  command  is  heard  repeated 
along  the  lines ,  and  there  is  a  noise  of  swords.  David, 
girding  on  his  sword,  to  Joah.]  Four  hundred  come 
with  me,  and  two  hundred  remain  on  guard. 
Choose  the  stronger,  those  who  have  su£fered  less 
from  exhaustion  and  hunger,  and  let  them  here 
remain. 


Abigail  17 

JOAB. 

What  canst  thou  mean  by  this  ?  Thy  command 
is  quite  the  reverse  of  reason. 

David. 

Thou  wilt  never  understand  me.  Those  who 
have  most  suffered  from  exhaustion  and  hunger 
must  be  the  first  to  eat. 

JOAB. 

[Tapping  his  forehead.] 
I   see  1     [Turning   to   Abishai,    Ahimelech   and 
Abishur.]    Come,  let  us  choose  those  for  the  expe- 
dition and  those  for  the  guard. 

[Joab  and  the  three  to  whom  he  has  spoken  are 
soon  lost  among  the  soldiers.] 

David. 
Not  a  vestige  shall  remain  of  him  or  his.    They 
shall  all  die  ! 

ASAHEL. 

Even  his  beautiful  wife  ? 

David. 
Death  !  Death  !  Men  and  women  alike,  so  that 
not  even  a  memory  of  him  shall  remain  !    The 
very  place  which  witnessed  his  insult  to  me  must 


i8  Abigail 

be    raized    and    devastated  !     Death  !     Death! 
Death  to  every  creature  and  every  thing  ! 

[Voices.] 
A  caravan  approacheth  !  Behold  !  A  caravan  ! 

JOAB. 

[Hurrying  forward,] 
A  caravan  of  asses,  laden  with  food,  cometh  this 
way  — 

Daved, 
Let  it  pass  through  !   Let  it  pass  on  !   Let  no 
man  dare  to  touch  it  !   Today  we  shall  sate  our- 
selves with  Nabal's  blood  and  possessions. 

Several  Servants. 
[Run    up    and    prostrate    themselves    before 
David,] 

David. 
Who  are  these  ? 

Abishur. 
Heralds  of  the  caravan. 

David. 
Arise,  and  go  your  way  in  peace. 

Young  Man. 
We  have  run  ahead  to  apprize  thee  that  our 
mistress  cometh. 


Abigail  19 

David. 
Your  mistress  ?  Who  is  your  mistress  ?  Cometh 
she  to  me  ? 

Young  Man. 
To  thee.    She  is  Abigail,  the  wife  of  Nabal. 

David. 
How  now  !  Away  from  me  !   Take  them  away 
from  me  !  Spare  them  not  ! 

[Turns  away] 

The  Young  Men. 
[Kneel  before  David j  clasping  his  clothes  and 
wailing.    David's  men  are  about  to  tear 
them  away.] 

David. 

[Turning  again  to  the  young  men.] 
Surely  in  vain  have  I  kept  all  that  this  fellow 
hath  in  the  wilderness,  so  that  nothing  was  missed 
of  all  that  pertained  unto  him;  and  he  hath  re- 
quited me  evil  for  good. 

Abigail. 

[Enters,  riding  upon  an  ass] 

David. 

[Does  not  notice  her,  and  speaks  in  an  acrid 
voice  to  the  vassals  before  him] 


20  Abigail 

So  and  more  also  do  God  unto  the  enemies  of 
David,  if  I  leave  of  all  that  pertain  to  him  by  the 
morning  light  a  single  living  creature  .  .  [Suddenly 
notices  Abigail,  and  stops  as  if  smitten  with  her 
beauty  J  ending  his  sentence  in  a  confused,  low  voice] 
.  .  .  a  .  .  .  single  .  .  .  male  .  .  .  creature. 

[The  men  about  him  notice  David's  features 
and  his  confusion.  They  look  around, 
behold  Abigail,  and  walk  of,  releasing  her 
servants,  who  rush  to  her  for  protection. 
Silence.] 

Abigail. 
[Descends  from  the  ass,  and  prostrates  herself 
before  David's  feet.] 

David. 

[Withdraws  from  her.] 

Abigail. 
[Approaches    him    once    more.    Oppressive 
silence.] 

JOAB. 

[Commanding  suddenly.] 

Abigail. 

[Quickly  rising  upon  her  knees,  stretching 
her  hands  imploringly  to  David.] 

David. 

[With  ironic  laughter.] 
Indeed  ! 


Abigail 


21 


Abigail. 
Let  thine  handmaid,  I  pray  thee,  speak  in  thine 
audience.    Hear,  I  pray,  the  words  of  thine  hand- 
maid ! 

David. 
Nabal  must  die  ! 

Abigail. 
Let  not  my  lord,  I  pray  thee,  regard  this  man  of 
Belial,  even  Nabal:  for  as  his  name  is,  so  is  he. 
Nabal  is  his  name  and  folly  is  with  him.  Couldst 
thou  have  expected  aught  else  from  him  ?  Couldst 
thou  have  awaited  from  him  other  than  a  denial  ? 
But  I  — 

David. 
Hast  thou  too  insulted  my  men  and  sent  them 
away  empty-handed  ? 

Abigail. 
Oh,  my  lord  !  As  the  Lord  liveth  and  as  thy 
soul  Hveth,  and  as  the  Lord  hath  more  than  once 
withholden  thee  from  shedding  blood,  and  from 
avenging  thyself  with  thine  own  hand.  Was 
not  Saul  in  thy  hands  ? 

David. 
The  King  ! 


22  Abigail 

Abigail. 
Oh,  my  lord  !    Thy  greatest  enemy,  yet  didst 
thou  not  kill  him.    Now  let  thine  other  enemies, 
and  they  that  seek  evil  to  thee,  have  no  greater 
worth  than  Nabal. 

David. 
I  must  stamp  out  the  vermin. 

Abigail. 
See  the  gift  which  thy  handmaid  hath  brought 
to  her  lord:  let  it  be  given  unto  the  young  men 
that  serve  thee. 

David. 
Thou  wouldst  bribe  me  ?    Wouldst  wipe  away 
mine  insult  with  thy  gift  ? 

Abigail. 
Oh,  forgive  the  trespass  of  thy  handmaid:  for 
the  Lord  will  certainly  make  my  lord  a  sure  house; 
because  my  lord  fighteth  the  battles  of  the  Lord, 
and  evil  hath  not  been  found  in  thee  all  thy  days. 

David. 
I  do  no  evil  when  I  punish. 

Abigail. 
Oh,  leave  that  to  God  !  And  should  a  man  arise 
to  pursue  thee,  and  to  seek  thy  soul,  the  soul  of 


Abigail  23 

my  lord  will  be  bound  in  the  bundle  of  life  with 
the  Lord  thy  God;  and  the  souls  of  thine  enemies, 
them  shall  he  sling  out  as  out  of  the  middle  of 
a  sling. 

David. 
What  manner  of  speech  is  this  ? 

Abigail. 
And  it  shall  come  to  pass,  when  the  Lord  shall 
have  done  to  my  lord  according  to  all  the  good 
that  he  hath  spoken  concerning  thee,  and  shall 
have  appointed  thee  ruler  over  Israel,  that  this 
shall  be  no  grief  unto  thee  either  that  thou  hast 
shed  blood  causeless  or  that  my  lord  hath  avenged 
himself  with  his  own  hand.  And  God  shall  deal 
well  with  thee  and  thou  wilt  remember  thine  hand- 
maid. 

[Falls  prostrate  before  Davidj  with  arms  ex- 
tended. Her  servants^  in  great  fright^ 
approach  with  subdued  wailing,] 

David. 

[About  to  raise  Abigail.] 

ASAHEL. 

[Anticipating  Davidj  raises  Abigail  to  her 
knees,  puts  her  arm  about  his  neck  and 
helps  her  to  her  feet] 


24  Abigail 

JOAB. 

Our  men  are  waiting,  David.    I  go  with  them. 

David. 
[Does  not  reply,  nor  does  he  remove  his  gaze 
from  Abigail.] 

Abigail. 
[Trembling  at  JoaVs  words,  opens  wide  her 
eyes  and  looks  at  David  in  mute  appeal] 

David. 

[After  regarding  her  silently] 
Thou  wast  not  —  sent  — 

Abigail. 
[Raises  her  hands  to  him  in  fright] 

David. 
Thou  sayest  that  —  thou  wouldst  —  have  me  — 

Abigail. 
[About  to  kneel  before  him  again] 

ASAHEL. 

[Prevents  her] 
David. 

[After  regarding  Abigail  in  silence] 

Blessed  be  the  Lord   God  of  Israel  which  sent 

thee  this  day  to  meet  me,  and  blessed  be  thy  advice, 


Abigail  25 

and  blessed  be  thou,  which  hast  kept  me  this  day 
from  coming  to  shed  blood  and  from  avenging 
myself  with  mine  own  hand. 

Abigail. 

[Relieved  and  happy.] 
Oh,  My  lord  ! 

David. 

For  in  very  deed,  as  the  Lord  God  of  Israel 
liveth,  which  hath  kept  me  back  from  hurting 
thee,  except  thou  hadst  hasted  and  come  to  meet 
me,  surely  there  had  not  been  left  unto  Nabal  by 
the  morning  light  a  single  ...  a  single  .  .  .  male 
creature. 

Abigail. 
[Lowers  her  eyes,  with  a  sigh  of  relief.] 
Blessed  be   God  !  —  [Raises  her  eyes  to  David.] 
Wilt  thou  now  accept  my  gift  ? 

David. 

With  thanks. 

Abigail. 

Two  hundred  loaves  of  bread  have  I  brought  — 

will  they  suffice  ?   For  I  knew  not  how  great  was 

the  number  of  thy  men  —  and  two  bottles  of  wine 

—  surely  will  they  not  be  enough.     Five  sheep 


26  Abigail 

ready  dressed,  five  measures  of  parched  corn,  an 
hundred  clusters  of  raisins  and  two  hundred  cakes 
of  figs.  This  is  all  that  I  could  in  my  haste  have 
placed  upon  the  asses. 

David. 
It  will  suffice.     [Calls  out.]    Soldiers!    There  is 
what  to  eat  !  Prepare  your  meal  ! 

[Amid  cries  of '^ Food  I  Food  T'  the  men  make 
towards  the  left,  in  the  direction  of  the  asses.] 


JOAB. 

[Angrily.] 
Wise  Nabal  !    With  this  little  would  he  save 
his  all  I 

Abigail. 

[Frightened,  to  David.] 
Oh,  my  lord,  I  swear  unto  thee  that  Nabal 
knoweth  not  of  a  single  loaf  of  bread,  nor  doth  he 
suspect  that  I  am  with  thee. 


David. 
I  believe  thee.    Thou  needst  not  fear.    Joab 
grumbleth  because  the  affair  hath  passed  without 
bloodshed.  [To  Joab.]  Go   slake   thy   thirst  with 
wine.    Mayst  have  my  share  too. 


Abigail  27 

JOAB. 

[Going.] 
And  thou,  with  what  are  thou  sated  ? 

ASAHEL. 

[Following  Joab.] 
Soon  am  I  too  quite  sated. 

David. 
[Looks  at  Abigail  intensely.] 

Abigail. 
[Lowers  her  eyes  in  embarrassment.] 

David. 
I  have  no  seat  to  offer  thee,  no  carpet.    I  sat 
but  now  upon  this  stone.    Wilst  thou  not  seat 
thyself  there  ? 

Abigail. 
Let  my  lord  be  seated.    His  handmaid  will  stand 
before  him.    But  thou  art  hungry;  what  wilt  thou 
have,  that  I  may  serve  thee  ? 

David. 
I  am  sated,  since  my  men  have  what  to  eat  — 
and  I  am  sated,  since  —  But  be  seated,  pray,  and 
I  shall  lie  at  thy  feet.  Be  seated,  else  must  I 
stand.  —  Wait.  I  shall  take  off  my  covering  and 
spread  it  out  upon  the  stone  — 


28  Abigail 

Abigail. 
Oh,  nay,  my  lord  —  thou  needst  not  trouble 
thyself  —  I  must  be  journeying  back. 

David. 

[Spreading  his  covering  of  hide  over  the  stone.] 
But  —  but  —  thou  wilt  not  journey  back  straight 
way.  Thou  must  wait  until  thine  asses  have  been 
unburdened,  and  thou,  too,  must  rest  thyself. 
Or  am  I  unwelcome  in  thine  eyes,  and  fearest 
thou  me  ? 

Abigail. 
Oh,  my  lord.     I  would  merely  reach  home  as 
quickly  as  may  be,  lest  Nabal  — 

David. 
Recall  not  Nabal's  name  to  me  lest  it  recall 
mine  anger.     Come,  be  seated. 

[Takes  her  by  the  hand  and  seats  her  down 
upon  the  stone.  He  stretches  himself  out 
at  her  feet  and  gazes  up  at  her  most  intensely.] 

Abigail. 
[Sits  shyly,   at  a  loss,   looking  about  with 
nervous  glances  which  rest  now  and  then 
upon  David.    She  would  look  well  at  him, 
but  dares  not] 


Abigail  29 

David. 

[Breaks  the  oppressive  silence^  speaking  slowly.] 
Thou  art  called  Abigail,  then  ? 

Abigail. 
Yea,  my  lord. 

David. 

[Almost  to  himself,  lingering  fondly  upon  the 
word.] 

A  —  bi  —  gail.  [Pause.]    Abigail  ! 

Abigail. 
What,  my  lord  ? 

David. 
What  a  fair  sound  hath  thy  name  ! 

Abigail. 

[Smiling] 
I  am  happy  that  my  name  pleaseth  thee. 

David, 
Thy  name  and  thy  — 

[Gazes  upon  her  passionately,] 

Abigail. 

[Her  eyelids  drooping.] 


so  Abigail 

David. 

[Stiddenly,] 
Tell  me,  lovest  thou  thy  husband  ? 

Abigail. 
[In  utter  confusion ,  about  to  rise.] 

David. 

[Holds  her  back.    Pause.] 
Dost  thou  love  him  ? 

Abigail. 
[Finally y  in  a  voice  scarcely  audible.] 
He  is  my  husband. 

David. 
You  said,  before,  he  was  an  evil  person. 

Abigail. 
My  parents  gave  me  to  him  to  wife. 

David. 
And  thou  lovest  him  not.  —  Why  should  I  not 
indeed  punish  him  ?  He  hath  earned  his  death. 

Abigail. 

[Frightened.] 
Oh! 


Abigail  31 


David. 
How  now  ?  Thou  lovest  him,  then  ! 

Abigail. 
He  is  my  husband. 

I  David. 

^  Ha-ha  ! 

Abigail. 
And  my  lord  must  not  deign  to  notice  such 
enemies. 

David. 
One  steppeth  upon  worms. 

^  Abigail. 

Nay  !  Do  not  kill  him  !  Do  not  kill  him  ! 

\ 

David. 
Ha-ha  !   And  now,  truly,  how  hast  thou  dared 
to  come  to  me  ? 

Abigail. 
I  knew  that  thou  couldst  forgive  thine  enemies. 


David. 
And  what  if  I  should  not  let  thee  return  ? 


32  Abigail 

Abigail. 

[Jumps  up  J  in  terror.] 
Oh,  my  lord  ! 

David. 

Why  should  Nabal  possess  so  precious  a  jewel  ? 
How  Cometh  to  such  a  churl  so  fair  a  wife  ? 

Abigail. 
Oh,  thou  wilt  release  me  ! 

David. 

To  return  to  thine  evil  husband  ? 

Abigail. 
To   my   husband.    Oh,    thou   wilt   not   strive 
against  God  and  disobey  his  holy  injunctions. 

David. 

[Buries  his  face  in  his  hands.] 

Abigail. 
Thou  art  the  Lord's  faithful  servant  and  wilt 
not  do  violence  to  the  wife  of  a  stranger. 

David. 

[Arising.] 
Thou  art  right.     Go  in  peace  to  thy  home. 


Abigail  33 

Abigail. 

[Bows  very  low.] 

David. 

[Smiling  sadly.] 
See,  I  obey  thee  in  all  things,  and  treat  thee 
honorably. 

Abigail. 

[Again  bowing  very  low.] 
Never  shall  I  forget  it. 

[They  regard  each  other  with  sad,   wistful 
countenance.    Silence.] 

David. 
Or  forget  me,  either  ? 

Abigail. 
[Her  head  droops,  she  blushes,  and  she  is  about 
to  leave.     There  is  a  commotion  to  the  left, 
AbigaiVs  servant  runs  up  to  her,  followed  by 
Asahel  and  others.] 

Servant. 
Oh,  mistress.  Thy  husband  Nabal  approacheth  ! 

Abigail. 

[Trembling.] 

Woe  is  me  ! 


34  Abigail 

David. 
Thou  art  under  my  protection. 

Abigail. 
He  must  not  find  me  here. 

David. 
So  much  dost  thou  fear  him  ? 

Abigail. 
Nay.    For  his  health  I  fear,  and  for  his  life. 
Stout  he  is,  and  full-blooded.     Should  he  see  me 
here  and  learn  what  I  have  done  with  his  posses- 
sions, it  can  make  him  ill,  it  can  kill  him. 

David. 
If  he  Cometh  hither,  then  will  he  learn  it  straight- 
way. 

Abigail. 
Oh,  where  can  I  conceal  myself  ?    Oh,  let  him 
not  see  me  and  deny  me  !  Hide  from  his  eyes  my       j 
gift  ! 

David. 

[To  the  servant.] 
How  far  is  Nabal  yet  from  here  ?  I  see  him  not 
yet  upon  the  way. 

Servant. 
He  is  still  far  off.    I  ran  ahead. 


Abigail  35 

David. 

[To  Asahel] 
Run  through  the  ranks  of  our  men  and  command 
them  to  stop  eating  and  drinking.  Hide  all  the 
food  and  conceal  NabaFs  servants  among  your 
ranks,  and  when  Nabal  arrives  let  all  lie  as  if  in 
utmost  exhaustion,  and  let  him  pass  through  with- 
out harm  to  a  hair  of  his  head. 

Asahel. 
Rely  upon  me.     The  game  will  be  well  played. 
[Leaves  together  with  the  servant  and  the  others.] 

David. 

[To  Abigail.] 
Conceal  thyself  behind  the  stone.    He  will  not 
see  thee. 

Abigail. 

[Obeying  him.] 

Oh  !    Already   I   behold    him  !     Seest    thou  ? 

That  stout  fellow  who  rideth  before  all  the  servants. 

David. 

[Sitting  down  upon  the  stone.] 
He  sitteth  not  sure  upon  his  mount.    I  could 
swear  the  churl  is  drunken. 

Abigail. 
And  well  you  may.    That  is  he  oft,  indeed. 


36  Abigail 

David. 

[Bending  down  towards  her.] 
And  that  is  thy  husband  ? 

Abigail. 
Thus  hath  God  willed. 

David. 
And  it  is  for  his  life  thou  tremblest  ? 

Abigail. 
Ever  have  I  shielded  his  life. 

David. 

Thou  faithful  soul  !  —  —  And  how  fair  thou 
art  !  —  —  Hide  thee  not  yet.  He  is  still  far 
distant.  Let  me  behold  thee.  —  Thus.  —  Quiet. 
Be  not  so  afraid.  —  Quiet.  Quiet.  —  He  is  still  far 
off.  —  How  fair  thou  art. 

Abigail. 

[With  a  sudden  cry.] 
Oh! 

[Rushes  to  hide  herself.] 

David. 

[Intercepting  her.] 

Nay.     Hide  thee  not  yet.     He  is  still  far  off,  as 

thou  canst  see.     Or  wouldst  thou  hide  thy  beauty  ? 

[Gazes  at  her  intently.] 


Abigail  37 

Abigail. 
[Hides  her  face  on  the  stone,] 


David. 
Abigail.    Let  Nabal  die. 

Abigail. 

[Frightened.] 
Oh,  my  lord  !    Nay  ! 

David. 
Abigail,  look  at  me. 

Abigail. 

[Her  eyes  lowered.] 
I  wish  no  guilt  in  his  death.  —  Oh  1   He  draws 
near  !   Oh,  swear  to  me  that  thou  wilt  harm  him 
not  ! 

David. 

[After  a  long  pause.] 
I  swear  it. 

Abigail. 
How  can  I  thank  thee  !  —  He  must  not  discover 
me  here  ! 

David. 
He  will  not  discover  thee. 


38  Abigail 

Abigail. 

[Siiddenly.] 
Oh  !  He  hath  fallen  from  the  ass  !  They  pulled 
him  down  —  your  men  — 

David. 

[Jumping  down  from  the  stone,] 
It  will  cost  them  dear  ! 

Nabal. 
[Enters,  scarcely  able  to  stand  upon  his  feet, 
surrounded  by  Asahel,  Abishur,  Ahimelech 
and  a  few  others,  who   bow  before  him 
mockingly.] 

Abigail. 
[Hides  quickly  behind  the  stone.] 

Nabal. 
Beggars  !  Hungry  dogs  !  Locusts  upon  the  field 
of  strangers  ! 

David. 

[To  his  men,  sternly.] 
Did  ye  pull  him  down  ? 

Asahel. 
Nay.    The  lord  fell  off  himself.    We  approached 
him  and  asked  for  something  to  still  our  hunger. 


Abigail  39 

He  wished  to  strike  us,  whereupon  he  fell.  [Bow- 
ing to  NabaL]  My  lord  did  not  hurt  himself  ? 
My  lord  hath  injured  none  of  his  limbs  ? 

Abishur. 
Woe  to  the  ass  that  could  not  carry  his  master  I 
We  will  stone  him  ! 

David. 

Let  him  be  ! 

ASAHEL. 

We  ask  but  that  the  lord  give  us  something  to 
eat,  else  shall  we  die  of  himger  before  his  very  eyes. 

Nabal. 
Ye  should  have  starved  long  ago.    Naught  shall 
ye  receive  from  me  but  blows.    Away,  mongrels  I 
Chew  the  earth,  if  ye  will. 

ASAHEL  AND  THE  OTHERS. 

[With  mock  entreaty,] 
Oh,  have  mercy  ! 

Nabal. 

[Aiming  blows  at  them  with  his  staff.] 

With  my  staff — straightway  shall  ye  feel  Nabal's 

mercy  !    Mercy  on  robbers  and  thieves  !     Ha-ha  ! 

...  I'll  strike  thee  once,  and  twice  .  .  .  [They  run 


40  Abigail 

away  from  him,  He  pursues  them,  then  turns  back 
to  David.]  And  thou  art  David  ?  Thou  art  the 
chief  of  the  beggars  ?  Shall  I  strike  thee,  too,  with 
my  staff  ?  Thou  —  Is  my  wife  here  with  you  ?  I 
have  been  told  that  she  went  to  thee  with  much 
food.  It  was  all  false  —  I'll  have  the  informants' 
tongues  cut  out.  They  lied  to  me.  They  hatched 
up  a  false  accusation.  Ye  are  all  starving  as  before 
...  As  before  ye  all  beg  upon  the  roads  .  .  .  Hun- 
gry dogs  !  .  .  .  Empty  stomachs  ! .  .  .  But  my  wife 
—  Where  is  my  wife  ?  She  is  not  at  home  ...  I 
could  find  her  nowhere  .  .  .  Was  she  not  here  with 
thee  ?  Speak,  slave,  hast  thou  not  seen  my  wife  ? 
Were  I  to  find  her  here  !  ...  I'd  strip  her  naked 
here  before  your  very  eyes  —  You  never  saw  my 
wife  naked  ?  Her  body  is  so  sweet  to  kiss  !  Hey  ! 
hey  ! 


Fie! 


Hey? 


Abigail. 


Nabal. 


[Behind  the  stone.] 


[Looking  about] 
[About  to  look  behind  the  stone.] 

David. 

[Obstructs  his  way.] 


Abigail  41 

Nabal. 
Hey,  hey  !  I^d  strip  her  naked  right  here  and 
let  her  have  it  upon  her  bare  body  with  this  staff  .  .  . 
I  shall  do  it  anyway  .  .  .  She  was  not  at  home  .  .  . 
the  hariot,  the  gadabout  ...  On  her  bare  body 
with  staff  and  thong  .  .  . 

David. 

[Seizes  Nabal  by  the  throat  and  commences  to 
choke  him.] 

ASAHEL,  AbISHUR  AND  AhIMELECH. 

[Rush  forward  and  commence  to  thrust  at 
Nabal  with  their  swords\ 

Abigail. 
[Rises  slowly  from  behind  the  stone  to  see  why 
Nabal  has  suddenly  become  silent.  Behold- 
ing the  struggle^  she  stifles  the  outcry  which 
her  terror  brings  to  her  lips.] 

David. 
[Throws  Nabal  away  from  him.] 

Abigail. 
[Her  eyes  turned  toward  Nabal,  she  sinks 
slowly  behind  the  stone.] 


42  Abigail 

Nabal. 
[Falls  on  the  ground  in  his  entire  lengthy  but 
soon  arises  J  passing  his  hand  over  his  face 
and  looking  quite  sober.     Finally  his  gaze 
lights  upon  David  and  he  works  himself  up 
to  a  terrible  fit  of  anger,  doubling  his  fists.] 
Thou  knowest  my  wife  !  .  .  .  She  has  been  here 
with  thee !  .  .  .  Thou  trailer  after  married  women  ! 
Thou  low  fellow  !   Thou  slave,  which  thy  master 
hath  not  whipped  enough  ! .  .  . 

ASAHEL,  AbISHUR  AND  AhIMELECH. 

[Rush  upon  Nabal  with  drawn  swords.] 

David. 
Back  !  Let  not  a  hair  of  his  head  be  harmed  ! 
I  have  sworn  it ! .  .  . 

Nabal. 
Thou  coward  !    Night-robber  !    Thou  runaway 
slave  ! 

Abigail. 

[Jumping  up.] 
Hold  !  Enough!    Cease  thy  contimiely  ! 

Nabal. 

[With  distended  eyes.] 
She  is  here  ! .  .  .  She  is  here  with  thee  ! .  .  . 


Abigail  43 

Abigail. 
[Steps  slowly  forth  from  her  hiding  place^ 
her  eyes  lowered.] 
He  hath  earned  thy  thanks,  and  thy  blessing, 
not  thy  rude  words. 

Nabal. 

[Completely  sober  by  now,] 
She  is  here,  the  — 

Abigail. 
Neither  abuse  me.     Call  me  no  names.    I  am 
here  for  thy  sake.     I  came  hither   to   save  thee 
from  his  avenging  wrath  ...  to  save  thy  posses- 
sions and  the  lives  of  all  of  us. 

Nabal. 
Hast  thou  brought  him  thyself  as  gift  ? 

David. 

[Makes  a  threatening  gesture.] 

Abigail. 
How  canst  thou  speak  thus  ?  Shame  thyself,  so 
to  address  me  ! 

Nabal. 
Didst  thou  come  with  empty  hands  and  smooth 
words  to  appease  him  ? 


44  Abigail 

Abigail. 
I  brought  him  gifts. 

Nabal. 
Gifts  !  Tell  me  the  truth  ! 

Abigail. 
Rouse  not  thyself.     Thine  anger  is  uncalled  for. 

Nabal. 
Gifts  ?  ! 

Abigail. 
Nothing  great.    An  insignificant  part  of  that 
which  thou  hast. 

Nabal. 
Gifts  !  Tell  me  !  Which  ?  What  ?  How  much  ? 

Abigail. 
Two  hundred  loaves  of  bread  .  .  . 

Nabal. 
Ttt-two  h-hundred  loaves  ?  !  .  .  .  Continue  .  .  . 

Abigail. 
Two  bottles  of  wine  .  .  . 

Nabal. 
Yes,  go  on  ! 


Abigail  4S 

Abigail. 


Five  sheep 


Nabal. 
Sheep  !  .  .  .  Sheep  !  .  .  .  What  else  ?  ! 

Abigail. 
Five  measures  of  parched  com  .  .  . 

Nabal. 
Indeed  !    Five  of  everything  .  .  .  Five  .  .  .  Five 
.  .  .  Five  times  five  most  likely  ! 

Abigail. 
As  true  as  God  liveth  .  .  . 

Nabal. 
Continue  !   Continue  !   Give  the  complete  tale  ! 
What   more  ?     How    many    oxen  ?     How   many 
cattle  ?    How   many   goats  ?    And   milk  ?    And 
butter  ? 

Abigail. 
Oh,   nay  !    Oh,   nay  !    Nothing  of  all   these  ! 
Only  an  hundred  clusters  of  raisins  and  two  him- 
dred  .  . . 

Nabal. 
Ttt-two  hundred  ?  !  .  .  .  What  ?  ! .  . . 


46  Abigail 

Abigail. 
Cakes  of  figs. 

Nabal. 
Figcakes  !    Two  hundred  figcakes  !    Figcakes  ! 
Figcakes  !   Two  hundred  !   Thou  !  .  .  .  Thou  !  .  .  . 

Abigail. 
[About  to  shield  herself  from  Nabal  behind 
David.] 

Nabal. 
Thou  !  .  .  . 

[His  breath  comes  short,  he  gasps,  his  hands  at 
his  neck.] 

ASAHEL,  AbISHUR,  AhIMELECH. 

[Surround  Nabal  with  bread,  meat,  cakes  and 
wine  which  they  thrust  before  his  eyes.] 
Seest  ?   Thy  bread  it  is  we  eat  !  .  .  .  Thy  cakes 
. . .  Thy  figcakes  !  Figcakes  ! .  .  . 

Nabal. 

[Falls  suddenly  to  the  ground.] 

Abigail. 
\With  a  shriek  of  fright  she  approaches  Nabal 
carefully.] 
Nabal  !    [He  is  motionless,  and  she  bends  over 
him.]    Nabal  !    [She  gets  down  on  her  knees  and 


Abigail  47 

looks  for  signs  of  life.]    Nabal  !  .  .  .  [Frightened, 
looking  around  to  David.]    He  is  dead  ! 

David. 

[Bending  over.] 
He  is  dead.  [As  if  to  himself.]  Blessed  be  God 
that  hath  reckoned  with  my  insult  from  Nabal, 
and  hath  kept  me  from  evil.  NabaFs  wickedness 
hath  returned  upon  his  own  head.  [To  Abigail.] 
Thou,  too,  mayst  praise  the  Lord. 

Abigail. 
He  is  dead. 

David. 
And  thou  art  free  and  delivered  from  the  hand 
of  a  wicked  man. 

Abigail. 
God  is  my  witness.     I  did  not  wish  his  death. 

David. 
Thou  pure  and  faithful  soul  ! 

Abigail. 
But  he  called  thee  such  vile  names  .  .  . 

David. 
[Puts  his  hand  slowly  upon  her  head,  and 
caresses  her  hair.] 


48  Abigail 

Abigail. 
[Shudders    and   closes    her   eyes.    She    soon 
opens  them,  and  looks  upon  the  corpse.] 
I  feel  shame  that  I  cannot  weep  .  .  .  Yet  can 
I  not  weep  .  .  . 

David. 

[To  Asahel  and  his  comrades.] 
Take  him  away.     Carry  him  back  to  his  earth  in 
Carmel  and  bury  him  there  with  his  forefathers. 

Ahimelech. 
To  the  dogs  would  I .  .  . 

David. 
Silence  ! .  .  . 

Asahel. 
It  is  a  pity  !  Poor  dogs  !  Such  a  tough  fellow  .  .  . 
[They  carry  out  the  corpse] 

Abigail. 

[Arising  in  tears.] 
Nabal  ! 

David. 
Thou  hast  spoken  his  name  for  the  last  time. 

Abigail. 

[Shaking  her  head.] 
Nay.    He  was  my  husband  — 


Abigail  49 

David. 
Was.    But  now  —  I  — 

Abigail. 

[Raising  her  eyes  to  his.] 
Wouldst  thou  ? 

David. 
Take  his  place. 

Abigail. 
Oh! 

David. 
Wilt  thou  be  my  wife  ?  If  that  be  true  which  I 
have  read  from  thine  eyes  .  .  . 

Abigail. 
[Lowers  her  head,  gradually  hows  low,  and 
falls  of  a  sudden  upon  her  knees.] 
Thine  handmaid  will  be  a  servant  to  wash  the 
feet  of  the  servants  of  my  lord. 

David. 
[Raises  her,  embracing  her.] 
My  wife  !  My  pious  dove  ! 


CURTAIN 


FORGOTTEN   SOULS 

Drama  in  One  Act 

By  DAVID  PINSKI 


PERSONS 


Miss  SegaVs 
Boarders, 


Fanny  Segal*,  owner  of  a  tailoring  establishment. 

Lizzie  Ehrlich,  a  pianist 

HiNDES,  a  teacher 

Place,  a  Russian  provincial  town. 

Time,  the  present,  '' 


52 


FORGOTTEN  SOULS 


Scene:  Workroom  at  Fanny  SegaVs,  A  door  to 
the  left  of  the  spectator,  another  in  the  hack.  A  large 
table,  covered  with  various  materials;  at  each  side  oj 
the  table  a  sewing  machine.  On  the  wall  to  the  rights 
a  three-panelled  mirror;  in  the  corner,  a  large  ward- 
robe. Not  far  from  the  wardrobe  two  dressmaker^ s 
forms,  covered  with  cloaks.  In  the  middle  a  broad 
armchair.    Evening. 

Fanny. 
[Runs  out  through  the  rear  door  and  soon  re- 
turns with  a  letter  in  her  hand.    She  tears  it 
nervously  open  and  is  absorbed  in  reading. 
Suddenly  she  gives  a  scream  of  delight.] 
Oh  !  —  Oh  !    [Passes  her  hand  over  her  face  and 
through  her  hair,  looks  at  the  letter,  cries  out  anew, 
breathing  with  difficulty.    Looks  at  the  letter  once 
more,   and   exclaims,   heavily.]    You  !    My   love  ! 
My  love !  [She  is   lost  for   a   moment  in  thought, 
then  calls\    Lizzie  !  Lizzie  !  Lizzie  ! 

S3 


54  Forgotten  Souls 

Lizzie. 
[Enters,  dressed  up  as  if  for  a  ball,  sticking 
a  pin  in  her  hat.    Mocks  Fannys  tone.] 
What's  up  ?  What's  up  ?  What's  up  ? 

Fanny. 
Read  this  !  Quickly  !  It's  from  Berman  ! 

Lizzie. 

[Takes  the  letter.] 
Why  see  1   WeVe  just  been  talking  about  him. 
And  they  really  accepted  his  drama  ? 

[Looks  at  the  letter.] 

Fanny. 

[Looks  on,  too,  in  great  excitement.] 

Lizzie. 

[As  she  reads.] 
That's  fine  !    [Turns  over  a  page  and  continues 
reading.]     Why  !    This  is  an  actual  proposal  of 
marriage,  Fanny,  my  dear  ! 

Fanny. 

[Eer  breath  short  from  delight.] 
Did  you  understand  it  that  way,  too  ? 


Forgotten  Souls  S5 

Lizzie. 

[Still  looking  at  the  letter.] 
How  can  it  be  interpreted  otherwise  ?  [About  to 
read  the  letter  aloud.]  Ahem  !  [Reads  with  a  certain 
solemnity.]  "My  drama  has  been  accepted  and 
will  be  produced  this  very  winter.  The  conditions 
of  the  contract  are  first-rate,  and  the  director 
promises  me  a  great  success,  and  incidentally  a 
great  reputation."  [Reads  over  some  passages  in 
an  indistinct  nasal  monotone^  then  continues \  "My  ! 
You  ought  to  see  me  now.  —  I've  sung  and  danced 
so  much  that  it'll  be  a  wonder  to  me  if  I'm  not 
asked  to  move.  I  feel  so  strong.  And  now  to 
write,  to  create,  to  do  things  !"  [Reads  again  in  a 
nasal  monotone,  and  soon  with  greater  solemnity 
than  before,  and  a  certain  tenderness l\  ''And  now, 
I  hope,  better  days  are  in  store  for  us,  happiness 
of  such  a  nature  that  you  cannot  be  indifferent 
to  it."  [Stops  reading]  That's  a  bit  veiled,  but 
it's  plain  talk  just  the  same.  [Gives  Fanny  the 
letter.  Speaks  lovingly]  Lucky  woman  !  My 
darling  Fanny  !  [Embraces  her]  You  dear  ! 
[Kisses  her] 

Fanny. 

•    So   that's   the  way  you  understand   it,    too  ? 

[Speaks  in  gasps,  trembling  all  over]     Oh  !    Oh! 

[Covers  her  face  with  the  letter,  takes  it  to  her 

lips  and  breathes  with  difficulty.    She  takes, 


56  Forgotten  Souls 

jrom  her  right  sleevCj  a  handkerchief  and 
wipes  her  eyes.] 

Lizzie. 
[Moved,  embracing  her  with  both  arms.] 
My  dear  Fanny  !  How  happy  I  am  !  You  dear, 
you  !  [Dreamily.]  Now  I  know  how  I'll  play  at 
the  Ginsberg's  tonight  !  I'll  put  my  whole  soul 
into  the  music,  and  it  will  be  the  merriest,  cheeriest 
soul  that  ever  lived  in  the  world.  j 

Fanny. 

[Bends  down  and  kisses  her  forehead.] 
My  faithful  friend  ! 

Lizzie. 
At  last  !  My  dream's  come  true  I 


Fanny. 

[Drops  into  the  armchair. 


Your  dream  ? 


Lizzie. 

[Takes  a  piece  of  cloth  from  the  table,  spreads 

it  out  on  the  floor,  and  kneels  before  Fanny.] 

Listen.    I  dreamed  for  you  a  hero  before  whom 

the  world,   even  before  seeing  him,   would  bare 

its  head.     I  dreamed  for  you  a  triumphal  march 

of  powerful  harmonies,  a  genius,  a  superman,  such 

as  only  you  deserve. 


Forgotten  Souls  57 

Fanny. 
Sh!  Sh!  Don't  talk  Hke  that! 

Lizzie. 
No,  no.  You  can't  take  that  away  from  me.  As 
long  as  I  shall  live  I'll  never  cease  admiring  you. 
There  aren't  many  sisters  in  the  world  like  you. 
Why,  you  never  have  given  a  thought  to  yourself, 
never  a  look,  but  have  worked  with  might  and  main 
to  make  a  somebody  out  of  your  sister.  I'll  tell  you 
the  truth.  I've  often  had  the  most  unfriendly 
feelings  toward  your  sister  Olga.  She  takes  it  so 
easy  there  in  Petrograd,  while  you  — 

Fanny. 

[Tenderly.] 
You're  a  naughty  girl. 

Lizzie. 
I  simply  couldn't  see  how  things  went  on,  — 
how  you  were  working  yourself  to  death. 

Fanny. 
But  that  was  my  happiness,  and  now  I  am  amply 
repaid  for  it,  to  see  Olga  placed  upon  an  indepen- 
dent footing,  with  a  great  future  before  her  as  a 
painter. 

Lizzie. 
That  kind  of  happiness  did  not  appeal  very 
much  to  me.    I  wanted,  for  you,  a  different  kind 


s8  Forgotten  Souls 

of  happiness,  —  the  happiness  of  being  a  wife,  of 
being  a  mother,  of  loving  and  being  loved. 

Fanny. 

[In  a  reverie.] 
I  had  already  weaned  my  thoughts  away  from 
love  and  family  life  as  the  only  happiness. 

Lizzie. 
You  poor  soul  ! 

Fanny. 
When  my  mother  died,  my  road  was  clearly 
mapped  out  for  me:  to  be  to  my  sister,  who  is 
eight  years  younger  than  I,  both  a  father  and  a 
mother.  That  purpose  was  great  and  holy  to  me. 
I  never  thought  of  anything  else.  Only  in  the 
early  twenties,  between  twenty-two  and  twenty- 
five,  a  longing  for  something  else  came  to  me. 
Not  that  my  sister  became  a  burden  to  me,  God 
forbid,  but  I  wanted  something  more,  a  full  life, 
happiness  and  —  love.  At  that  time  I  used  to  cry 
very  much,  and  wet  my  pillow  with  my  tears,  and 
I  was  very  unhappy.  And  I  was  easily  angered 
then,  too,  so  you  see  I  was  far  from  an  angel. 

Lizzie. 
[Draws  Fanny  nearer ^  and  kisses  her.] 
You  darling,  you  ! 


Forgotten  Souls  59 

Fanny. 
But  later  the  longing  left  me,  as  if  it  had  been 
charmed  away.     Olga  grew  older,  and  her  talents 
began  to  ripen.     Then  I  forgot  myself  altogether, 
and  she  became  again  my  sole  concern. 

Lizzie. 
And  is  that  all  ? 

Fanny. 
What  else  can  there  be  ?  Of  course,  when  my 
sister  went  to  Petrograd  she  was  no  longer  under 
my  immediate  care  and  I  was  left  all  alone.  The 
old  longing  re-awoke  in  my  bosom  but  I  told  myself 
that  one  of  my  years  had  no  right  to  expect  happi- 
ness and  love.  So  I  determined  to  tear  out,  to 
uproot  from  my  heart  every  longing.  I  tried  to 
convince  myself  that  my  goal  in  life  had  already 
been  attained  —  that  I  had  placed  a  helpless  child 
securely  upon  her  feet  — 

Lizzie. 
But  you  loved  Berman  all  the  time,  didn't  you  ? 

Fanny. 
Yes,  I  loved  him  all  the  time,  but  I  fought  my 
feelings.    Life  had  taught  me  to  restrain  and  to 
suppress   my   desires.     I   argued:  He   is   too   far 
above  me  — 


6o  Forgotten  Souls 

Lizzie. 
Too  far  above  you  ? 

Fanny. 

[Continuing.] 
And  I  am  too  worn-out  for  him.  And  further- 
more, I  tried  to  make  myself  beheve  that  his  daily 
visits  here  were  accidental,  that  they  were  not 
intended  for  me  at  all,  but  for  his  friend  and  nephew 
Hindes,  who  happens  to  board  with  me. 


Lizzie. 
But  how  could  you  help  perceiving  that  he  was 
something  more  than  indifferent  to  you  ?  You  must 
have  been  able  to  read  it  in  his  eyes. 


Fanny. 

[Smiling.] 

Well,  you  see  how  it  is  !   And  perhaps  for  the 

very  reason  that  I  had  abandoned  all  ideas  of  love, 

and  had  sought  to  deceive  myself  into  believing 

that  I  was  a  dried-up  twig  on  the  tree  of  life  — 


Lizzie. 

[Jumping  up.] 
My  I  How  you  sinned  against  yourself  ! 


Forgotten  Souls  6i 

Fanny, 

[Rising.] 
But  now  the  sap  and  the  strength  flow  again 
within  me,  —  now  I  am  young  once  more.  —  Ah  ! 
Life,  life  !  —  To  enjoy  it,  to  drink  it  down  in 
copious  draughts,  to  feel  it  in  every  pulse-beat  — 
Oh,  Lizzie,  play  me  a  triumphal  march,  a  song  of 
joy,  of  jubilation  .  .  . 

Lizzie. 
So  that  the  very  walls  will  dance  and  the  heavens 
join  in  the  chorus.  [Goes  to  the  door  at  the  left, 
singing.]  "Joy,  thou  goddess,  fair,  immortal, 
daughter  of  Elysium,  Mad  with  rapture  — " 
[Suddenly  stops.]    Sh  !  Hindes  is  coming  ! 

[Listens.] 

Fanny. 
[She  has  been  standing  as  if  entranced;  her 
whole  body  trembles  as  she  awakens  to  her 
surroundings.    She    puts    her    finger    to 
her  nose,  warningly.] 
Don't  say  a  word  to  him  about  it. 

Lizzie. 
I  will  !    He  must  know  it,  he  must  be  happy 
over  it,  too.    And  if  he  truly  loves  you,  he  will  be 
happy  to  learn  it.    And  then,  once  for  all  he'll  get 
rid  of  his  notions  about  winning  you. 


62  Forgotten  Souls 

Fanisty. 
Don't  be  so  inconsiderate. 

Lizzie. 
Leave  it  to  me  !  .  .  .  Hindes  !  Hindes  1 

Fanny. 
It's  high  time  you  left  for  the  Ginsberg's. 

Lizzie. 
I've  a  few  minutes  yet .  .  .  Hindes  !  Hindes  ! 

Hindes. 
[Appears  at  the  rear  door.    He' wears  spec- 
tacles;  under  his  left  arm  a  crutch^  under  his 
right  arm  books j  and  in  his  hands  various 
bags  of  food.] 

Fanny. 

[Steals  out  through  the  door  at  the  left.] 

Hindes. 
Good  evening.    What's  the  news  ? 

Lizzie. 
Come  here  !  Quick  !  Fa  — 

Hindes. 
Won't  you  give  me  time  to  carry  my  parcels 
into  my  room  ? 


Forgotten  Souls  63 

Lizzie. 
Not  even  a  second  !  Fanny  has  — 

HiNDES. 

[Taking  an  apple  from  a  bag.] 
Have  an  apple. 

Lizzie. 

[Refusing  it.] 
Let  me  speak,  won^t  you  !  Fa  — 

HiNDES. 

May  I  at  least  sit  down  ? 

Lizzie. 

[Lotidly.] 
Fanny  has  received  a  letter  from  Berman  ! 

HiNDES. 

[Taking  a  seat.] 
Saying  that  his  drama  has  been  accepted.    I, 
too,  have  received  a  letter  from  Berman. 

Lizzie. 
That's  nothing.     The  point  is  that  he  is  seeking 
to  make  a  match  with  her.     He  has  practically 
proposed  to  her. 


64  Forgotten  Souls 

HiNDES. 

[Astonished.] 
Practically  proposed  ?  To  Fanny  ? 

Lizzie. 

Yes,  and  when  Fanny  comes  back  you  just  see 
to  it  that  you  wish  her  a  right  friendly  congrat- 
ulation, and  that  you  make  no  —  [Stops  suddenly.] 
Hm  !  I  came  near  saying  something  silly.  —  Oh, 
I'm  so  happy,  and  I'd  just  have  the  whole  world 
happy  with  me.  Do  you  hear  ?  You  must  help 
her  celebrate,  do  you  hear  ?  And  now,  good  night 
to  you,  for  I  must  run  along  to  the  Ginsberg's. 
[Turns  to  the  door  at  the  left  singing.  "Joy,  thou 
goddess,  fair,  immortal ..." 

HiNDES. 

[Calling  after  her.] 
But  —  the  devil.    Miss  Ehrlich  ! 

Lizzie. 

[At  the  door.] 
I  haven't  a  single  moment  to  spare  for  the  devil. 

[She  disappears.] 

HiNDES. 

[Grunts  angrily,  throws  his  crutch  to  the 
ground,  places  his  books  and  his  packages 
on  a  chair,  and  mumbles.] 


Forgotten  Souls  65 

What  mockery  is  this  ! 

[Takes  out  a  letter  from  his  inside  pocket 
and  reads  it  over  several  times.  Grunts 
again.  Rests  his  head  heavily  upon  his 
handy  and  looks  vacantly  forward^  as  if 
deeply  puzzled.] 

Fanny, 

[Enters,  embarrassed.] 
Good  evening,  Hindes  ! 

HiNDES. 

[Mumbles J  without  changing  his  position.] 
Good  evening  ! 

Fanny. 
[Looks  at  him  in  embarrassment,  and  begins 
to  busy  herself  with  the  cloaks  on  the  forms.] 

Hindes. 
[Still  in  the  same  position.     He  taps  his  foot 
nervously.    He  soon  ceases  this,  and  speaks 
without  looking  at  Fanny.] 
Miss  Segal,  will  you  permit  me  to  see  Herman's 
letter  ? 

Fanny. 

\With  a  nervous  laugh.] 
That's  a  bit  indiscreet  —  not  at  all  like  a  cav- 
alier. 


66  Forgotten  Souls 

HiNDES. 

[Same  position  and  same  tone.] 
Will  you  permit  me  to  see  Berman's  letter  ? 

Fanny. 

[With  a  laugh  of  embarrassment,  throws  him 
the  letter  J  which  she  has  been  holding  in  her 
sleeve.] 
Read  it,  if  that^s  how  you  feel. 

HiNDES. 

[Bends  slowly  down,  gets  the  letter,  commences 
to  read  it,  and  then  to  grumble.] 
Hm  !  So  ! 

[He  lets  the  letter  Jail  to  his  knee,  and  stares 
vacantly  before  him.    He  shakes  his  foot 
nervously  and  mumbles  as  if  to  himself.] 
To  be  such  an  idiot  I 

Fanny. 

[Regards  him  with  astonishment.] 

HiNDES. 

[Somewhat  more  softly.] 
To  be  such  an  idiot ! 

Fanny. 

[Laughingf  still  embarrassed.] 
Who? 


Forgotten  Souls  67 

HiNDES. 

Not  I. 

[Picks  up  his  crutch,  the  hooks  and  the  parcels, 
arises  J  and  gives  the  letter  to  Fanny,] 

Fanny. 

[Beseechingly.] 
Hindes,  don't  take  it  so  badly.    You  make  me 
very  sad. 

Hindes. 
I'm  going  to  my  room,  so  you  won't  see  me. 

Fanny. 

[As  before.] 
Don't  speak  to  me  like  that,  Hindes.  Be  my 
good  friend,  as  you  always  were.  [In  a  lower  tone, 
embarrassed.]  And  be  good  to  Berman.  For  you 
know,  between  us,  between  you  and  me,  there 
could  never  have  been  anything  more  than  friend- 
ship. 

Hindes. 
There  is  no  need  of  your  telling  me  that.    I 
know  what  I  know  and  have  no  fault  to  find  with 
you. 

Fanny, 
Then  why  are  you  so  upset,  and  why  do  you 
reproach  yourself  ? 


68  Forgotten  Souls 

HiNDES. 

Because  . . . 

Fanny. 

Because  what  ? 

HiNDES. 

[After  an  inner  struggle^  stormily.] 
Because  I  am  in  a  rage  !   To  think  of  a  chap 
writing    such    a    veiled,    ambiguous,   absolutely 
botched  sentence,  and  cooking  up  such  a  mess  1 

Fanny. 
What  do  you  mean  by  all  this  ? 

HiNDES. 

You  know,  Miss  Segal,  what  my  feelings  are 
toward  you,  and  you  know  that  I  wish  you  all 
happiness.  I  assure  you  that  I  would  bury  deep 
within  me  all  my  grief  and  all  my  longing,  and  would 
rejoice  with  a  full  heart  —  if  things  were  as  you 
understood  them  from  Berman's  letter. 

Fanny. 
As  I  understood  them  from  Berman's  letter  ? 

HiNDES. 

—  And  what  rouses  my  anger  and  makes  me 
hesitate  is  that  it  should  have  had  to  happen  to 


t 


Forgotten  Souls  69 

you  and  that  I  must  be  the  surgeon  to  cut  the 
cataract  from  your  eye. 


Fanny. 

[Astounded.] 
Drop  your  rhetorical  figures.    End  your  work. 
Cut  away,  since  youVe  begun  the  cutting. 

HiNDES. 

[Without  looking  at  her^  deeply  stirred.] 
Berman  did  not  mean  you. 

Fanny. 

Not  me  ? 

HiNDES. 

Not  you,  but  your  sister.      ^ 


Faiwy. 
OhI  — 


\With  an  outcry. 


HiNDES. 

He  writes  me  that  his  first  meeting  with  her  was 
as  if  the  splendor  of  God  had  suddenly  shone  down 
upon  him,  —  that  gradually  he  was  inflamed  by  a 
fiery  passion,  and  that  he  hopes  his  love  is  returned, 
that .  .  . 


70  Forgotten  Souls 

Fanny. 

[Falls  upon  a  chair,  her  face  turned  toward 
the  table.    She  breaks  into  moaning.] 
She  has  taken  from  me  everything  ! 

[In  deepest  despair,  with  cries  from  her  inner- 
most being,  she  tears  at  her  hair.] 

HiNDES. 

[Drops  his  books  and  packages  to  the  floor. 
Limps  over  to  Fanny,   and  removes  her 
hands  from  her  head.] 
You  have  good  reason  to  weep,  but  not  to  harm 
yourself. 

Fanny. 

[Hysterically.] 
She  has  taken  from  me  everything  !  My  ambi- 
tion to  study,  my  youth,  my  fondest  hopes,  and 
now  ... 

HiNDES. 

And  now  ?  —  Nothing.  As  you  see,  Berman 
never  loved  you.  If  it  hadn't  been  for  that  un- 
fortunate, ambiguous,  absolutely  botched,  simply 
idiotic  sentence  ,  .  . 

Fanny. 

[SofUy.] 
Hindes,  I  feel  that  I  no  longer  care  to  live. 


Forgotten  Souls  71 

HiNDES. 


Folly  I 


Fanny. 
I  feel  as  if  my  heart  had  been  torn  in  two.    My 
soul  is  empty,   desolate  ...  as  if  an  abyss  had 
opened  before  me  .  .  .  What  have  I  now  to  live 
for  ?  I  can  live  no  longer  ! 

HiNDES. 

Folly  !  Nonsense  ! 

Fanny. 
I  have  already  lived  my  life  .  .  . 

HiNDES. 

Absurd  ! 

Fanny. 

[Resolutely,] 
I  know  what  I'm  talking  about,  and  I  know 
what  to  do. 

[Silence.] 

HiNDES. 

[Regarding  her  closely.     With  blunt  emphasis.] 
You're  thinking  now  over  what  death  you  shall 
choose. 

Fanny. 

[Motionless.] 


72  Forgotten  Souls 

HiNDES. 

[Taking  a  seat.] 
Let  me  tell  you  a  story.  There  was  once  upon 
a  time  a  man  who  —  not  through  doubt  and  mis- 
fortune, but  rather  through  good  times  and  pleas- 
ures came  to  the  conclusion  that  life  wasn't 
worth  living.  So  he  went  off  to  buy  a  revolver. 
On  his  way  a  great  clamor  arose  in  the  street. 
A  house  had  caught  fire  and  in  a  moment  was  in 
flames.  Suddenly,  at  one  of  the  windows  in  the 
top  story  there  appeared  a  woman.  The  fire- 
men had  placed  their  highest  ladders  against  the 
building  and  a  man  began  to  climb  up.  That 
man  was  none  other  than  our  candidate  for  suicide. 
He  took  the  woman  out  of  the  window,  gave  her 
to  the  firemen  who  had  followed  him  up,  and  then 
went  through  the  window  into  the  house.  The 
surrounding  crowd  trembled  with  fear  'est  the 
house  should  cave  in  at  the  very  next  moment. 
Flames  already  appeared  at  the  window,  and  people 
were  sure  that  the  hero  had  been  burned  to  death 
inside.  But  he  had  not  been  burned;  he  soon 
appeared  on  the  roof,  with  a  small  child  in  his  arms. 
The  ladders  could  not  reach  to  this  height,  so  the 
firemen  threw  him  a  rope.  He  tied  the  rope  about 
the  child  and  lowered  it  to  the  firemen.  But  he 
himself  was  beyond  rescue.  He  folded  his  hands 
over  his  heart,  and  tears  trickled  from  his  eyes. 
He,  who  but  a  moment  before  had  sought  death, 


Forgotten  Souls  73 

now  desired  not  to  die.  No,  he  wanted  to  live,  for 
in  that  moment  he  had  found  a  purpose:  to  live 
and  to  do  good. 

Fanny. 

[Angrily.] 
To  do  good  !  I'm  tired  of  doing  good  ! 

HiNDES. 

Don't  sin  against  yourself,  Fanny  ! 

Fanny. 
Do  good  !  I  have  done  good;  I  have  lived  for 
others,  not  myself;  and  now  you  can  see  for  your- 
self that  I  have  not  fulfilled  my  life.  I  feel  as 
wretched  as  the  most  miserable,  as  the  most  wicked, 
and  I  long  for  death  even  as  the  most  unhappy  ! 

HiNDES. 

[Looking  at  her  from  under  his  spectacles.] 
Does  Olga  know  of  your  feelings  toward  Berman  ? 

Fanny. 

[Angrily.] 
I  don't  know  what  she  knows. 

HiNDES. 

Can't  you  give  me  any  better  reply  than  that  ? 


74  Forgotten  Souls 

Fanny. 

What  can  I  know  ?   I  used  to  write  her  letters 
just  full  of  Berman. 

HiNDES. 

Could  Olga  have  gathered  from  them  that  you 
were  not  indifferently  disposed  toward  him  ? 

Fanny. 
What  do  you  mean  by  this  cross-examination  ? 

Hindes. 
I  have  a  notion  that  if  you  were  to  do  what 
you  have  in  your  mind  at  present,  —  a  thing  I 
cannot  bring  myself  to  name,  —  then  Olga  would 
not  accept  Berman's  love.  Rather  she  would  take 
her  own  life,  since  she  would  look  upon  herself  as 
the  cause  of  your  death. 

Fanny. 
What's  this  youVe  thought  up  ? 

Hindes. 
Just  what  you  heard. 

Fanny. 

And  you  mean  —  ? 


Forgotten  Souls  7S 

HiNDES. 

—  That  you  know  your  sister  and  ought  to 
realize  what  she's  liable  to  do. 

Fanny, 

[In  a  fit  of  anger.] 

First  she  takes  away  my  life,  and  now  she  will 
not  let  me  die  1  [Her  head  sinks  to  the  table.] 

HnSTDES. 

There  spoke  the  true  Fanny,  the  Fanny  of  yore. 

Fanny. 

[Weeps  bitterly.] 

HiNDES. 

Well  may  you  weep.  Weep,  Fanny,  weep  until 
the  tears  come  no  more.  But  when  that  is  over, 
then  dry  your  eyes  and  never  weep  again.  Dry- 
forever  the  source  of  all  your  tears.  That's  exactly 
what  I  did,  do  you  imderstand  ?  Such  people  as 
you  and  I,  robbed  of  personal  happiness,  must 
either  weep  forever,  or  never  weep  at  all.  I  chose 
the  latter  course.  Harden  yourself,  Fanny,  and 
then  fold  your  arms  on  your  breast  and  look  fear- 
lessly forward  into  life,  fulfilling  it  as  your  heart 
dictates. 

Fanny. 

[Continues  weeping.] 


76  Forgotten  Souls 

HiNDES. 

[Noticing  Berman^s  letter  on  the  table  ^  takes 
it  up  and  throws  it  down  angrily] 
Such  a  botched,  idiotic  sentence!    And  he's  a 
poet! 

Fanny. 

[Raising  her  head.] 

If  things  are  as  you  say,  then  Olga  will  in  any 

case  reject  Berman.     She  will  imagine  that  she 

is  taking  him  away  from  me,  and  such  a  thing  she 

would  never  do. 

HiNDES. 

Perhaps.     [Suddenly j   bluntly]    And  what  will 
be  the  effect  of  all  this  upon  you  ? 

Fanny. 

A  \  [Brokenly.] 

Who's  thinking  of  self  ?    I  mean  that  I  want 
her  to  have  him. 

HiNDES. 

There's  the  old  Fanny  again  ! 

Fanny. 
Ah  !    Enough  of  that  !    Better  help  me  with 
some  suggestion. 


Forgotten  Souls  77 

HiNDES. 

Some  suggestion  ?  Be  her  matchmaker. 

Fanny. 
And  suppose  she  should  turn  the  tables  and 
want  to  be  my  matchmaker  ? 


HiNDES. 

WeVe  got  to  think  that  over. 


Fanny. 
Hindes  ! 

HiNDES. 

What? 

Fanny. 
I  have  an  idea. 

Hindes. 
Good. 

Fanny. 
But  I  need  your  aid. 

Hindes. 
Count  on  me,  if  I^m  able. 


[Silence.] 
[Brokenly,] 


78 

Forgotten  Souls 

Fanny. 

Do  you  promise  ? 

HiNDES. 

BHndly  ? 

Fanny. 

BHndly. 

HiNDES. 

[Looks  at  her,] 
Why  must  I  promise  you  blindly  ?  If  I'm  able, 
you  may  be  sure  I'll  help. 

Fanny. 

[Brokenly,  yet  in  embarrassment,] 
Take  me  .  .  .  Marry  me. 

HiNDES. 

[For  a  moment  he  looks  at  her,  then  picks  up 
his  crutch,  his  hooks  and  the  packages,] 

Fanny. 

[Beseechingly] 
Hindes  !    If  I  should  marry,  Olga  wouldn't  have 
any  obstacle  in  her  way. 

Hindes. 
Miss  Segal,  I  have  loved  you,  and  still  do.    But 
I  refuse  to  be  the  altar  upon  which  you  shall  sac- 
rifice yourself. 


Forgotten  Souls  79 

Fanny. 
I        But  a  moment  ago  you  dissuaded  me  from  death. 
Will  you  now  drive  me  back  to  it  ? 

HiNDES. 

Your  sister  will  be  able  to  find  happiness  without 
Berman. 

f  Fanny. 

But  if  she  loves  him  ?  — 

HiNDES. 

Then  she^ll  suffer,  just  as  we  do. 

Fanny. 
No  !    Olga  must  not  suffer  !    Do  you  hear  ! 
I'll  not  have  it  ! 

HiNDES. 

That  is  very  nice  of  you. 

Fanny. 

[Through  her  tears.] 
'  Hindes,  I  no  longer  know  you. 

HiNDES. 

[Turns  toward  the  door.] 
Good  night. 


8o  Forgotten  Souls 

Fanny. 

[Is  overcome  by  sobbing.] 

HiNDES. 

[Limps  to  the  door,  then  stops.    Looks  down- 
wards, then  raises  his  eyes  toward  Fanny  \ 
Miss  Segal,  why  is  it  that  during  all  the  time 
that  I  have  boarded  with  you  I  have  made  no 
declaration  of  love,  that  I  have  never  proposed 
marriage  ? 

Fanny. 

[Weeps] 

HiNDES. 

I'll  tell  you.  Wasn't  it  because  I  knew  that  you 
didn't  love  me,  and  because  I  wanted  your  love, 
not  merely  your  respect  ? 

Fanny. 

[Firmly] 
No.    You  didn't  do  it  simply  because  you  knew 
that  I  would  refuse  you. 

HiNDES. 

And  suppose  I  expected  "Yes"  from  you  ? 

f 

Fanny. 

Then  you  would  have  proposed. 


Forgotten  Souls  8i 

HiNDES. 

And  married  you  without  your  love  ? 

Fanny. 
Yes. 

HiNDES. 

But  then  I  didn't  know  that  you  loved  another. 

Fanny. 

[Brokenly.] 
The  other  no  longer  exists  for  me, 

HiNDES. 

[Looks  again  at  Ihe  floor.    Silence.] 

Fanny. 

Hindes  ! 

HiNDES. 

Yes? 

Fanny. 
Come  nearer  to  me. 

HiNDES. 

I  am  lame. 

Fanny. 

Put  all  your  bundles  aside. 


82  Forgotten  Souls 

HiNDES. 

[Hesitates  for  a  moment j  then  puts  down  his 
books  and  packages.] 

Fanny. 

[As  if  in  embarrassment.] 
Everything  .  .  .  Everything  .  .  . 

HiNDES. 

[Bluntly] 
Don't  be  ashamed.    Say  just  what  you  mean: 
Lay  aside  the  crutch,  too. 

[He  lays  aside  the  crutch.] 

Fanny. 

[Arises J  takes  his  hand.] 
Hindes,  you  know  my  attitude  toward  you. 
You  know  how  highly  I  esteem  you,  how  happy  I  Ve 
always  been  to  possess  in  you  a  good,  true  friend  .  , . 
[Nestles  her  head  against  him,  coyly.]  Embrace  me, 
and  give  me  a  kiss,  a  hot,  passionate  kiss.  Put 
into  it  your  whole  love,  make  it  express  your  whole 
true  soul.  [Brokenly ,  and  in  tears.]  I  tell  you, 
our  life  will  be  —  happy.  We  souls,  forgotten  by 
happiness,  will  yet  find  it  —  in  our  own  way  —  as 
best  we  can.  [Less  tearfully.]  You'll  see  how  it'll 
soon  be.  Lizzie  will  come  home  and  she'll  play  us  a 
march  of  jubilation,  a  march  of  joy  .  .  .  [Brokenly.] 
She  owes  it  to  me  !  .  .  .  I'll  dance,  I  tell  you;  I'll 


f  Forgotten  Souls  83 

dance  for  two.  You'll  see.  And  I'll  sing.  I'll  turn 
things  upside  down.  Hindes,  kiss  me,  hotly,  hotly. 

I 
Hindes. 

[Passionately J  through  tears.] 
You  .  .  .  You  .  .  . 
I  [He  gives  her  a  long  kiss,  as  if  entranced.] 

SLOW  CURTAIN 


SOLOMON  J.  RABINOWITSCH 


Sholom  Aleichem  is  the  most  popular  of  some 
half-dozen  pseudonyms  that  have  served  to 
obscure  the  real  name  of  the  author,  —  Solomon  J. 
Rabinowitsch,  (died  May  13,  19 16).  Sholom 
Aleichem  is  Hebrew  for  "Peace  be  with  you"  and 
is  a  common  greeting  when  two  Jews  meet.  It 
was  a  happy  thought  of  the  author's  to  choose  as 
his  pseudon3nn  a  phrase  that  is  so  frequently  upon 
Jewish  lips,  and  by  the  full-blooded  humor  thatl 
has  come  to  be  associated  with  his  name  he  achieved 
the  distinction  of  being  the  most  beloved  of  modern 
Jewish  writers.  Sholom  Aleichem  was  also  known 
as  the  Yiddish  Mark  Twain. 

Rabinowitsch  was  born  about  fifty-seven  years 
ago  in  Poltova,  Russia.  He  is  a  figure  of  far 
greater  importance  to  Yiddish  letters  than  to  the 
Yiddish  stage,  and  was  responsible  for  the  revival 
of  Yiddish  poetry  some  thirty  years  ago.  He  gave 
a  new  trend  to  his  people's  literature,  as  editor 
established  new  standards,  and  as  critic  demolished 
the  vulgar  type  of  work  for  which  Shaikewitsch's 
name  has  long  stood  as  symbol.  Sholom  Aleichem 
learned  his  style  from  the  Russians  Gogol  and 
Ostrovsky,  whom  he  much  resembles  in  his  humor- 

85 


86         Solomon  J.  Rabinowitsch 

ous  writings.  As  poet  he  seems  to  have  been 
nurtured  upon  Nekrassof. 

He  is  not  primarily  a  dramatist.  The  play  here 
presented,  entitled  in  the  original  A  Doktorl  is 
given  for  its  comic  treatment  of  the  matchmaker 
theme,  and  as  an  example  of  Yiddish  vaudeville, 
rather  for  any  dramaturgic  or  intellectual  merit. 
It  illustrates,  at  the  same  time,  that  spirit  of 
amusement  for  amusement's  sake  which  is  charac- 
teristic of  the  writer's  prose  works,  not  without  its 
undercurrent  of  thought  or  satire.  The  Jew  can 
rarely  laugh  without  thinking,  and,  quite  as 
important,  is  always  ready  to  laugh  at  himself. 

It  is  only  fair  to  say  that  Rabinowitsch  did  not 
profess  to  be  a  great  dramatist.  Other  one-act 
ejBforts,  as  for  instance  ^'Mazel  Tov^^  [Good  luck,  i.  e. 
Congratulations]  and  Der  Get  [The  Divorce]  show 
clearly  his  limitations.  Either  the  pathos  becomes 
bathos,  or  the  comedy  degenerates  to  vaudeville. 
His  ^'Zeseit  und  Zerspreit^^  [Cast  to  the  Winds, 
literally,  Disseminated  and  Dispersed]  in  three 
acts,  had  some  success  in  Poland,  and  bears  a 
strong  resemblance  to  Naidenof's  "Children  of 
Vaniouschin".  It  is  the  tale  of  a  family's  dis- 
integration. 

A  Doktorl  cannot,  of  course,  be  appreciated  as 
much  by  the  Gentile  as  by  the  Jew,  to  whom  the 
marriage-broker  type  is,  today,  a  more  or  less 
comical,  if  at  times  necessary,  personage. 


Solomon  J,  Rabinowitsch       87 

Although  we  have  no  less  an  authority  than  the 
Talmud  for  the  statements  that  "marriages  are 
made  in  heaven",  and  that  "not  money  but 
character  is  the  best  dowry  of  a  wife/'  the  profes- 
sional matchmaker  or  marriage-broker  [shadchan] 
is  still  an  important  factor  in  modern  Yiddish  life. 
True,  he  has  fallen  from  the  position  of  legal  and 
social  pre-eminence  which  he  enjoyed  some  cen- 
turies ago,  yet  today  he  does  a  flourishing  business 
in  defiance  of  both  Talmudic  citations.  "After  all," 
he  might  argue,  "I  make  marriages  on  earth,  but 
then,  is  it  not  possible  that  in  so  doing  I  am  an 
intermediary  of  heaven?"  To  which,  no  doubt, 
many  a  Jewish  maiden  will  assent  who,  favored 
much  more  by  fortune  than  by  Nature,  would 
otherwise  be  condemned  to  remain  in  that  state 
which  to  her  is  far  more  certainly  a  singleness  than 
a  blessedness.  And  as  for  character  being  the 
best  dowry,  no  parent  ever  told  that  to  a  shadchan; 
some  poor  father  of  homely  daughters  must  have 
smuggled  that  line  into  the  Talmud.  However 
that  may  be,  characters  yield  no  percentage, 
and  the  shadchan,  before  singing  the  epithalamium 
consults,  if  you  will,  the  Yiddish  Bradstreet  and 
Dun. 

"The  professional  matchmaker",  says  a  well- 
known  authority,  "comes  into  prominence  and 
enjoys  a  legal  status  at  least  as  early  as  the  twelfth 
century.    It  is  hardly  open  to  doubt  that  this 


88         Solomon  J.  Rabinowitsch 

enterprising  professional  owed  his  existence  to  the 
same  cycle  of  events  which  resulted  in  the  system- 
atization  of  early  marriages.  When  Jewish  society 
became  disintegrated  by  the  massacres  and  expul- 
sions of  the  crusading  era,  its  scattered  items 
could  only  be  re-united  through  the  agency  of 
some  peripatetic  go-between.  There  was  nothing 
essentially  unromantic  about  the  method,  for  the 
schadchan  was  often  a  genuine  enthusiast  for 
marriage.  The  evil  came  in  when,  like  the  Roman 
pronuba  or  the  Moslem  katbeh,  the  schadchan  made 
up  marriages  for  a  fee,  or,  happening  to  be  a 
traveling  merchant,  hawked  hearts  as  well  as 
trinkets." 

In  early  times  none  but  a  student  of  the  holy 
law  might  be  a  matchmaker.  One  famous  Rabbi 
devoted  the  whole  of  his  income  as  Rabbi  to  the 
support  of  his  students,  maintaining  himself  by 
his  matchmaker  fees.  In  the  middle  ages,  when 
parents  were  anxious  to  marry  their  daughters  to 
men  of  learning  the  Rabbi  was  a  natural  go-between. 

The  matchmaker's  fee  was  usually  a  percentage 
of  the  dowry.  Thus,  "in  the  middle  of  the  eigh- 
teenth century  the  shadchan  in  the  Black  Forest 
received  one  and  one-half  percent  on  dowries  of 
600  gulden,  and  one  per  cent  on  dowries  of  larger 
amount."  In  earlier  times  the  siun  might  be 
made  the  matter  of  special  bargaining,  and  thus 
represent  more  than  the  regular  rates.    A  rare 


Solomon  J.  Rabinowitsch      89 

case  is  cited  of  a  Jewish  female  matchmaker 
{shadchanis)  with  the  added  rarity  that  she  declared 
her  girl  client  four  years  older  than  she  really  was! 
All  of  which  becomes  more  easily  imderstandable 
when  we  are  told  that  the  girl  was  twelve. 

The  term  shadchan  is  derived,  most  appropriately, 
from  a  Hebrew  word  signifying,  literally,  the 
charmer.  In  modem  literature  and  on  the  Yiddish 
stage  the  shadchan's  charming  talk  usually  takes 
the  form  of  downright  lying.  In  actual  life, 
although  the  conditions  of  the  ghetto  still  allow 
of  his  activity,  he  is  slowly  but  certainly  being 
ousted  by  the  determination  of  the  young  folks  to 
be  their  own  matchmakers.  The  modem  Jewish 
girl  is  feminist  enough  to  see  the  degrading  com- 
mercialism inherent  in  the  shadchanis  trade  and  to 
recognize  the  insult  to  her  individualism  which  is 
thus  implied.  At  the  same  time  this  type  is  not 
yet  so  numerous  but  that,  in  the  chase  after  doctors 
and  lawyers  which  distinguishes  many  who  should 
be  above  the  purchase  of  husbands,  the  shadchan 
still  finds  employment. 


I 


SHE  MUST  MARRY  A 
DOCTOR 

Sketch  in  One  Act 

By  SOLOMON  J.  RABINOWITSCH 
(Sholom  Aleichem) 


PERSONS 

Hyman  Krendelman,  about  50  years  of  age,  — 
just  become  rich.     Wears  a  long  coatj  but  no  hat. 

Anna,  his  wife,  of  uncertain  age  .  .  .  Manages  to 
keep  young  by  mixing  with  the  up-to-date  young- 
sters. Lavishly  bedecked  with  ornaments  of  gold, 
diamonds,  brilliants  and  pearls. 

Vera,  their  daughter, —  a  young,  modernized  girl. 

Abeam,  their  son,  of  the  studious,  modern  sort, 

Sholom  the  Matchmaker, —  in  a  green  coat  and 
a  skull-cap. 

Slottke,  a  chambermaid. 

Breine,  the  cook, —  a  woman  with  a  hairy  upper-lip. 


92 


SHE  MUST  MARRY  A 
DOCTOR 


Scene:  A  large  parlor^  containing  costly  velvet- 
upholstered  furniture^  expensive  rugs,  bronze-framed 
mirrors,  various  tables.  There  is  a  display  of  silver 
plates,  gilded  spoons,  colored  glasses.  The  arm- 
chairs are  strewn  with  silk  and  satin  dresses.  On 
the  window  a  large  copper  pot  with  two  handles. 
Costly,  but  dried-up  plants,  on  which  are  hanging 
a  pair  of  brushed  pants  and  a  white  vest.  On  a 
book-shelf  may  be  seen  bread-crumbs  and  a  jar  of 
preserves.  On  the  piano,  a  pillow.  In  short  —  a 
picture  of  rare  disorder. 

Hyman. 
[Gesticulating  wildly  and  running  about  the 
room.] 
Good  God  in  heaven,  what  is  he  pestering  the 
life  out  of  me  for  ? 

Sholom. 
[Running  after  him,  with  a  letter  in  his  hand.] 
Here,  see,  read  for  yourself  what  they  write  me. 
Read  !  Do  you  think  I  want  to  fool  you,  eh  ? 

93 


94       She  Must  Marry  a  Doctor 

Hyman. 
But  I  tell  you  I  want  none  of  this  !  I  don't  want 
any  match  !   That's  all  there  is  to  it  !   What  on 
earth  are  you  pestering  me  about  ? 

Sholom. 
But  I  ask  nothing   of  you, —  nothing  at  all, 
except  that  you  shall  have  the  kindness  to  take 
the  trouble  and  read  this  letter  here  that  I've 
received. 

Hyman. 
What  have  you  against  me,  anyway  ?  For 
heaven's  sake,  leave  me  in  peace,  will  you  ?  I 
have  no  time  to  talk  with  you.  Come  some  other 
day,  won't  you  ?  What  on  earth  is  he  pestering 
me  for  ! 

Sholom. 

[To  himself.] 
It  doesn't  become  him  to  listen.  He's  on  his 
high  horse  ...  He  doesn't  want  to  give  a  dowry, 
that's  the  trouble,  —  the  miser  !  [To  Hyman.] 
May  you  live  to  be  a  hundred  and  twenty  years! 
old  !  Just  take  a  glance  at  a  few  Hnes,  just  a  couple 
of  words,  my  dear  fellow.  Why  should  you  care  ? 
Just  do  it  as  a  favor  to  me,  that's  all.  Believe  me, 
I  tell  you  by  my  faith,  I  tell  you,  it's  one  cracker- 
jack  proposition,  —  Such  an  opportunity  doesn't 


She  Must  Marry  a  Doctor        95 

come  once  in  ten  years.     Here,  take  the  letter, 
read  it  with  your  own  eyes,  —  here,  read. 

Hyman. 

[Stopping  both  his  ears,] 

Good    heavens  !     What    misfortune    is  this  ? 

What  visitation  of  wrath  has  been  sent  upon  me  ? 

Stop  pestering  me,   I   tell  you  !    It's  positively 

unbearable  !  My,  oh  my,  oh  my  ! 

[His  wife  comes  running  in.] 

A>fNA. 

[Frightened.] 
What's  the  trouble  ? 

Hyman. 

[About  to  speak  J  but  Sholom  prevents  him  by 
stopping  his  mouth.     With  his  other  hand 
Sholom  waves  about  the  letter \ 
Mm  —  mm  — 

Sholom. 
Understand  me,  my  dear  Mrs.  Krendelman, 
may  you  ever  be  well  and  happy,  —  I'll  show  you 
the  letter.  Why  should  we  deceive  ourselves  ? 
Why  ?  I  tell  you  it's  a  rare  good  fortune  for  your 
daughter.  Upon  my  very  Hfe  I  swear  it  !  Here, 
take  it,  read,  —  read  and  see  for  yourself  that  I'm 
telling  no  fibs.    Why  should  I  lead  you  into  any 


96       She  Must  Marry  a  Doctor 

affair  that  you'll  regret  —  God  forbid  !    Here,  see 
for  yourself,  —  here,  read,  —  here  !  .  .  . 

Anna. 
[Takes  the  letter  and  puts  it  into  her  husband* s 
hand.] 
Really,  Hyman,  why  shouldn't  you  read  it  ? 
What  harm  can  it  do  you  ?   Does  it  cost  you  any 
money  ? 

Hyman. 

[Takes  the  letter.    Puts  on  a  pair  of  silver 
spectacles^    sits   down   and   commences   to 
read  in  a  very  loud  voice.    Anna  sits  down 
nearby  J  while  Sholom  accompanies  the  read- 
ing with  a  nodding  of  the  head  and  smacking 
of  the  lips  after  each  phrase.    He  fairly 
glows  with  satisfaction.] 
"To  the  honorable,  beloved,  worthy,  esteemed, 
learned,  wealthy,  pious  Mr.  Sholom  the  Match- 
maker, may  his  Hght  shine  forever:  In  the  first 
place,  let  me  say,  that  I  am  well,  —  praised  be 
God,  —  and  hope  to  hear  the  same  from  you,  — 
may    the    future    bring    nothing    worse  —  Amen. 
In  the  second  place,  in  regard  to  the  daughter  of 
the  wealthy  man  of  whom  you  wrote  me,  I'm  afraid 
that  there  can  be  no  match  arranged  with  the  son 
of  the  rich  man  over  here.     Because,  in  the  first 
place,  youVe  probably  heard  of  what  befell  the 


She  Must  Marry  a  Doctor        97 

rich  man  over  here,  —  his  elder  daughter  ..." 
What's  all  this  to  do  with  me  ?  What  do  I  need  to 
know  all  this  stuff  for  ? 

Sholom. 

[Seizing  Hyman  by  the  arm] 
What  do  you  care  ?   Just  keep  on  reading  and 
you'll  come  to  the  important  part. 

Hyman. 

[Continues  reading.] 
"...  His  elder  daughter,  God  forbid,  became 
infatuated  with  a  teacher,  and  eloped  with  him 
to  a  certain  town,  where  she  wanted  to  get  married 
then  and  there.  So  the  teacher  came  with  his 
sweetheart  to  a  rabbi,  prepared  for  the  ceremony. 
Well,  the  way  it  looks,  the  rabbi  didn't  want  to 
perform  the  marriage,  so  they  went  off  to  the 
government  rabbi  to  get  married.  So  the  govern- 
ment rabbi  said  to  them,  says  he  ...  "  For  the 
love  of  heaven,  I  ask  you,  what  has  that  to  do  with 
us  ?  .  .  . 

Sholom. 
What  do  you  care  ?  Just  read  on  .  .  .  read  on  .  .  . 

Hyman. 
[Red  with  anger,  continues  reading] 
"...  So  the  government  rabbi  said  to  them, 


98       She  Must  Marry  a  Doctor 

says  he,  —  'What  do  you  wish?'   says  he.     So 

the  teacher  says, '  I  want  you  to  marry  us '.     So  the 

government  rabbi  says,  'What  do  you  mean,  marry 

you  ?    Do  I  know  you  ?'    So  the  teacher  says 

[Becoming   confused.]     So   the   government   rabbi 

says  ...  So  he  says  ..."    To  the  devil  with  the 

whole  business  !    Did  you  ever  hear  the  hke  ? 

[Mocking.]    ''So  he  said'',   "so  the  government 

rabbi  said,"  "so  then  he  said."    What's  all  this 

say-so  to  me  ?  What  do  you  want  of  me,  anyway  ? 

[He  flings  the  letter  away  and  is  about  to  leave 

the  room,  when  Sholom  seizes  his  hand  and 

stops  him.    Sholom  then  proceeds  to  read 

the  letter  where  Eyman  left  off.] 

Sholom. 
[With  frequent  pauses  for  a  long  breath.] 
"...  Ah  !  There's  modern  teachers  for  you  .  .  . 
modem  doctors  ...  So  you  see,  that  the  rich  man 
over  here  is  no  kind  of  relative  for  a  man  Uke  your 
wealthy  man  to  have.  But,  for  that  matter,  I 
have  a  match  to  propose  for  the  daughter  of  your 
wealthy  cHent  which  is  in  every  way  better,  finer, 
more  respectable  and  of  better  pedigree  than  the 
other.  In  the  town  of  Lifovetz  there  is  a  very 
nice  widow  named  BayleGoldspinder,  and  although 
she  isn't  as  wealthy  as  your  cHent,  she  comes  of 
a  very  high  pedigree,  —  from  Reb  Pincus  of 
Lifovetz.     And,  more  to  the  point,  she  has  an 


she  Must  Marry  a  Doctor        99 

only  son,  a  gem  of  a  young  man  whose  like  cannot 
be  discovered  in  all  the  lands  of  the  earth,  — 
handsome,  upright,  highly  educated  and  possessed 
of  all  virtues.  A  man,  I  tell  you,  who  has  studied 
all  the  languages,  a  regular  doctor  of  philosophy, 
and  even  more,  against  whom  all  the  other  doctors 
can't  hold  a  candle."*  [To  Anna.]  There! 
What  do  you  say  to  a  match  like  that  !  You,  — 
how  do  they  say  ?  —  are  a  woman  of  understand- 
ing, who  knows  her  business  .  .  . 

Anna. 

[Turning  up  her  nose.] 
No  .  .  .  that's   not   the   kind   of   match   we're 
looking  for. 

Hyman. 
We  aren't  looking  for  that  kind  of  match. 

Sholom. 

[Aside.] 

There  you  are  !    You  can't  touch  these  newly 

rich  swells  !   The  very  dome  of  heaven  isn't  good 

enough  for  them  !  [To  Hyman  and  Anna.]      What 

kind  of  match  did  you  want,  then  ? 

Anna. 
We  wanted  something  .  .  .  something  ...  in  the 
nature  of  a  .  .  .  brilliant  match  ! 

*Original:   "He  sticks  all  the  other  doctors  in  his  belt." 


loo      She  Must  Marry  a  Doctor 

Hyman. 
Yes  sir  !  A  brilliant  match  ! 

Sholom. 
What  ?    Do  you  think  you're  going  to  make  a 
briUiant  catch  with  your  dowry  of  ten  thousand  ? 

Anna. 
Ten  thousand  ?  You  mean  twenty  thousand  ! 

Hyman. 
Twenty  thousand  ?  No  !  I  say  ten  thousand  ! 

Sholom. 

[Aside.] 
A  fine  chance  to  reach  any  conclusions  here  ! 
Ten  thousand,  twenty  thousand,  —  twenty  thou- 
sand, ten  thousand.    A  see-saw  between  one  and 
the  other  ! 

Anna. 

[Loudly.] 
If  I  tell  you  it's  twenty  thousand,  then  twenty 
thousand  it  is  ! 

Sholom. 
Twenty  thousand,  as  you  say. 

Hyman. 

[Loudly.] 
And  when  I  tell  you  it's  ten  thousand,  then  it's 
ten^  and  that's  all  there  is  about  it ! 


She  Must  Marry  a  PQ.etor;.  :•.  t<ji.;. 


Sholom. 
Ten  thousand,  as  you  say. 


Anna. 


[Louder,] 


Twenty  thousand  ! 


Sholom. 


Twenty  thousand. 


Ten  thousand  ! 


Hyman. 


[Loyder,] 


Sholom. 
Ten  thousand.     [Aside.]    It's  enough  to  send 
a  man  to  the  lunatic  asylum  ! 

[Abram  enters,  with  a  pile  of  books  under  his 
arm.    He  goes  to  the  bookshelf,] 

Hyman. 
And  where  are  you  coming  from,  pray  ? 


Abram. 

[Looking  at  nobody] 

I  ?    I  am   coming  from   the  Hbrary  .  .  .  My  ! 

How  hot  it  is  !    [Notices  Sholom]    Oh  !    So  Mr. 

Matchmaker  is  here  again,  is  he  ?   What  are  you 

doing   here,    anyway  ?    Another   match  ?    More 


/.iQ?  s    She-Must  Marry  a  Doctor 

bargaining  ?  When  will  you  learn  to  deal  with 
up-to-date  people  ?  When  are  you  going  to  stop 
buying  and  selling  brides  and  bridegrooms  ? 
You're  worse  than  Asiatics,  savages,  despots  ! 

Hyman. 
[Looks    at   the    matchmaker   with   pride    at 
Ahram's  display  of  learning.] 
There  !  What  have  you  to  say  to  that  ? 

Sholom. 

[To  Abram.] 
What  was  that  last  word  you  said  ? 

Abram. 
And  even  if  I  tell  you,  will  you  know  ? 

Anna. 
Why  not  ?  Is  Sholom  an  animal,  that  he  shouldn't 
understand  ? 

Abram. 
Who  said  he  was  ?    I  merely  said  he  wouldn't 
comprehend,  because  it  is  of  foreign  derivation. 

Sholom. 
Because  it's  of  f o  .  .  .  ? 


She  Must  Marry  a  Doctor      103 

Abram. 

[Close  to  Sholom^s  ear.] 
Of  foreign  derivation.    Now,  do  you  understand? 
A  word  of  foreign  derivation. 

Sholom. 
Aha! 
I    [Ahram^s  parents  swell  with  pride  at  their 
I       son's  erudition,] 

Abeam. 
Aha  ?  What  do  you  mean,  "aha"  ?  Right  away 
the  fellow  answers,  "aha"  ! 

Sholom. 
I  mean,  that ...  in  regard  to  the  meaning  of 
that  word  .  .  .  er,  er  .  .  . 

[Fidgets  about  with  his  fingers.] 

Abram. 

[Holding  his  sides.] 
Ha-ha-ha  !  Fanatic  !  Oh,  you  fanatic  !  Words 
of  foreign  derivation,  you  must  imderstand,  are 
what  we  would  term,  in  common  speech,  words 
from  other  languages.  For  instance,  "despot"  is 
a  word  of  foreign  derivation.  ' '  Despot  —  despots  " 
singular,  plural.  There  !  Do  you  know  where 
that  word  comes  from  ? 


I04       She  Must  Marry  a  Doctor 

Sholom. 
Well,   where  does  it  come  from,  pray  ?    I'm 
nothing  but  a  common,  everyday  Jew.  I  never 
went  to  school,  and  certainly  not  through  college.  . . 
Let's  have  a  cigarette,  won't  you  ? 

[Ahram  gives  him  a  cigarette.] 

Abram. 

[Pompously.] 
The  word  despot  is  derived  from  "despotism"  / 
.  .  .  Now,  do  you  know  ? 

Sholom. 

[Shakes  his  head.] 
So  I .  .  .  And  what  does  despotism  mean  ? 

Abram. 
Despotism  is  the  same  as  despot.  ! 

Sholom. 
Aha  !  If  that's  the  case,  then  I  know  !  Maybe 
you  have  a  match  about  you  ?   [Abram  gives  him 
a  match.]   Now  what  does  despot  mean  ?    [Lights 
the  cigarette.]  Make  that  clear  for  me,  won't  you  ? 

Abram. 
Why,  a  despot  is  a  person  who  acts  despotically. 
—  There  you  have  the  whole  story. 


She  Must  Marry  a  Doctor      105 

Sholom. 
I  understand  !  I  understand  !   [Blows  the  smoke 
of  his  cigarette  into  the  air.]  And  what  does  despotic- 
ally mean  ? 

Abram. 
Despotically  signifies  that  he  acts  like  a  despot. 
And  a  despot  means  a  tyrant  —  despot  and  tyrant 
are  practically  the  same,  and  for  heaven's  sake 
don't  bother  me  any  longer  ! 

[Turns  to  his  hooks  and  begins  to  thumb  over 
the  pages.] 

Sholom. 
I  get  it  now.  I  get  it.  The  root  of  the  word 
is  one  thing,  and  the  meaning  of  it  is  another. 
That's  what  you  call  grammar.  Tell  me,  Abram, 
—  long  life  to  you,  —  from  what  language  does 
that  word  come  ?  From  German,  or  from  French  ? 

Abram. 

[Referring  to  a  hook\ 
What  ?  Despotism  ?  From  Latin. 

Sholom. 

[Deeply  impressed.] 

You  don't  say  ?  All  the  way  from  Latin  !   [To 

Abram's  parents]    You  see  that  ?    There's  what 

you  call  knowing  languages  !  That's  what  you  call 


io6      She  Must  Marry  a  Doctor 

modern  learning  !   In  our  day,  Hyman,  what  did 
we  know  of  tongues  and  languages  ?  Eh  ? 

[The  parents  are  filled  with  pride.] 

Abeam. 

[Haughtily.] 
Who  is  this  proposed  husband  for  my  sister 
that  you're  talking  about  ?  A  doctor  of  medicine, 
or  a  jurist  ?  Or  perhaps  a  technical  engineer  ? 


Sholom. 
Neither  one  nor  the  other.  - 


[Smoking.] 


Abraj\i. 
Neither  one  nor  the  other  ?   What  then  is  he  ? 
A  merchant  ? 

Sholom. 
Heaven  forbid  !  He  is  a  young  man  of  most 
excellent  pedigree,  —  a  man  of  great  learning. 
Knows  every  language,  — Yiddish,  Russian,  Ger- 
man, French,  and  everything  else.  A  regular 
cyclopedia  ! 

Abram. 
And  you're   the   connoisseur   to  judge   of   his 
learning,  are  you  ?   A  fine  state  of  affairs  !    But 


She  Must  Marry  a  Doctor      107 

your  trouble  is  in  vain.  My  sister  will  marry  no 
other  than  a  doctor,  and  a  doctor  of  medicine, 
at  that  ! 

Hyman. 

Who's  asking  you  about  it,  an3n?^ay,  Abram  ? 
Who  are  you  to  be  giving  orders  around  here  ? 

Abram. 
Well,  I  tell  you.    Vera  will  have  nobody  for  a 
husband  other  than  a  doctor  of  medicine. 

Hyman. 
That  may  be.    But  your  business  is  with  your 
books,  and  don't  come  mixing  in  to  other  affairs.     > 
Stick  to  your  books,  and  the  best  of  health  to  you  ! 

Anna. 

[Interrupting.] 
What  do  you  care  if  our  son  has  his  say  ? 

Hyman. 
I  don't  like   a   busy-body.    It's   none   of  his 
affair.  * 

Abram. 
[For  a  while  he  remains  standing,  and  then 
assumes  an  imposing  attitude.    Shakes  his 
head  and  speaks  to   himself  ?i 
•Original:  "It's  no  worry  of  his  grandmother's." 


io8      She  Must  Marry  a  Doctor 

Ah  !    Despotism  !    Fanaticism  !     Chassidism,  * 
Obscurantism  ! 

[Exit.    Parents    drink    in    each    word   with 
pride] 

Sholom. 
That^s  a  learned  fellow  for  you  !  That's  what 
you  call  knowledge  !  .  .  .  Now  then,  just  where 
are  we  at  in  regard  to  the  match  ?  I  don't  remem- 
ber, with  all  this  display  of  learning  dinning  my 
ears  .  .  .  Oh,  yes  .  .  .  Shall  I  send  a  telegram  or 
write  a  post-card  to  my  partner  about  the  match, 
saying  that  ... 

Anna. 

[Interrupting.] 
Don't   inconvenience   yourself.     Send   no    tele- 
grams  and  write  no  post-cards.     The  match  is 
not  to  our  taste. 

Hyman. 
No,  the  match  is  not  to  our  taste. 

Sholom. 
And  why  not  ? 

Anna. 
Because  we  want  a  doctor.    Now,  do  you  know  ? 
Once  and  for  all  time,  she  must  marry  a  doctor  ! 
That's  what  we  want  for  her. 

*  From  Chassid:  Member  of  a  fanatical  Jewish  sect. 


She  Must  Marry  a  Doctor      109 

Sholom. 
A  doctor,  you  say  ?    Well,  that's  your  affair. 
If  you  say  doctor,  let  it  be  a  doctor,  then. 

Hyman. 

[To  Anna.] 
Doctor,  you  say  ?    And  you  won't  have  any 
other  ? 

Anna. 
I  won't  think  of  any  other. 

Hyman. 
Well,  I'll  have  you  understand  that  I  want  a 
business  man.  I've  told  you  time  and  again  that 
I  want  a  business  man  and  not  a  doctor  !  A  great 
bargain  you  buy  with  these  doctor-poctors.  They 
study  and  study,  and  what  does  it  all  amount  to  ? 
When  trouble  comes,  who  has  to  go  to  whom  ? 
Who  goes  borrowing  money,  I  to  them,  or  they  to 
me  ?  Say  yourself,  Mr.  Matchmaker.  I  take 
no  doctor  as  son-in-law.  My  daughter  must 
marry  a  business  man.  You  just  write  that  down, 
Sholom,  —  a  business  man  ! 

Sholom. 
A  business  man  ?  Well,  that's  your  affair.  Let 
it  be  business  man,  since  you  say  so. 


no      She  Must  Marry  a  Doctor 

Anna. 
Well,  just  because  he  says  a  business  man  I  say 
it  shall  be  a  doctor  ! 


Sholom. 


A  doctor,  then. 


Hyman. 

I  tell  you,  Sholom,  a  business  man  ! 

Sholom. 
All  right,  a  business  man. 

Anna. 

I  tell  you,  a  doctor  ! 

Sholom. 
Very  well,  —  a  doctor. 

Hyman. 

A  business  man,  I  say  ! 

Sholom. 
All  right,  a  business  man. 

Anna. 

A  doctor,  I  say  !  A  doctor  ! 


[Loudly.] 


[Loudly] 


[Louder.] 


[Louder] 


she  Must  Marry  a  Doctor      m 

Sholom. 

[Aside.] 
My,  oh  my  !  This  is  enough  to  make  a  man 
crazy  !  [To  Hy man  and  Anna.]  Do  you  know  what? 
I'll  get  a  business  man  for  you  who  can  cure  people, 
too,  or  else  a  doctor  who  is  also  a  business  man. 
And  an  end  to  all  this  argument.  Order  some 
drinks,  and  let  a  fellow  rinse  his  throat .  .  .  I'm 
dry  inside  from  talking  with  you  .  .  . 

[Anna  rings  and  cake  is  served  with  brandy. 
Vera  enters  from  the  street ^  her  hat  still  on 
her  head,  gloves  on  her  hands,  holds  a 
parasol.] 

Vera. 

[To  Sholom.] 
Bon  jour,  monsieur. 

Sholom. 
My  name  is  Sholom,  not  masee. 

Vera. 
Ha-ha-ha  !   Don't  you  know  ?   Bon  jour,  mon- 
sieur, is  French  for  "Good  day  to  you,  sir  !" 

Sholom. 

A  fine  time  to  say  "Good  day"  to  anyone,  when 

it's  almost  night  time  now  .  .  .  Well,  good  evening 

to  you.  Vera.     Here's  your  health,  friend  Hyman, 

and  yours,  Anna  !  And  here's  to  Vera's  wedding  ! 


112      She  Must  Marry  a  Doctor 

Vera. 
Ha-ha-ha  !    Isn't  that  droll,  now  !    What  are 
you  doing  here,  anyway,  Sholom  ?     Still  harping 
on  matches  ?    Your   trouble  is   all  for  nothing. 
You  tire  your  feet  in  vain. 

Sholom. 
My  feet  are  my  own,  and  nobody  else's. 

Vera. 

[Convulsed  with  laughter,] 
Ha-ha-ha  !  Ha-ha-ha  ! 

Anna. 
My  daughter,  what  do  you  mean  by  laughing 
like  that  ? 

Hyman. 
Yes,  what  do  you  mean  ? 

Vera. 

[To  her  mother.] 
Isn't  he  the  comical  looking  thing  ?  Ha-ha-ha  ! 
Where  did  you  find  this  droll  fellow  ?  What's  the 
matchmaker  doing  here,  I'd  like  to  know  ! 

Anna. 
What's     the    matchmaker    doing  ?       Making 
matches,  of  course  !  What  do  you  think  ? 


She  Must  Marry  a  Doctor      113 

Vera. 
Matching  off  whom,  I'd  Hke  to  know  ? 

Hyman. 

And  you  ask  that  !   Whom  do  you  think  he's 
making  a  match  for,  —  me  ? 

Anna. 
They're  choosing  a  husband  for  you,  Vera  dear. 

Vera. 
What  do  you  mean,  choosing  a  husband  for  me  ? 
When  it  comes  to  choosing  a  husband,  I  can  speak 
for  myself  !  [Taking  of  her  gloves.]  What  husband 
has  been  proposed,  for  example  ? 

Anna. 
A  doctor. 

Hyman. 
A  business  man,  I  say  ! 


[Lotuily, 


Anna. 

A  doctor,  and  not  a  business  man  I 

Sholom. 

[Nods  assent.] 
A  doctor,  not  a  business  man. 


114      She  Must  Marry  a  Doctor 
Hyman. 


A  business  man,  and  not  a  doctor  ! 

Sholom. 
A  business  man,  and  not  a  doctor. 


A  doctor  ! 


Doctor. 


A  business  man  ! 


Anna. 


Sholom. 


Hyman. 


[Loudly,] 


[Louder.] 


[Louder.] 


Sholom. 

[Exhausted  and  perplexed.] 
A  business  man.  [Aside.]  There  you  go  !  The 
vaudeville's  commencing  all  over  again.  [Aloud.] 
Listen,  I've  got  a  plan.  !  Let's  put  it  up  to  the 
young  lady  herself  !  [To  Vera.]  Tell  us,  my  good 
young  lady,  which  do  you  prefer,  a  doctor  or  a 
business  man  ? 


Vera. 


You're  a  boor. 


She  Must  Marry  a  Doctor       115 
Sholom. 


A  what  ? 


A  big  boor. 


Vera. 


Sholom. 
I  believe  you're  mistaken,  young  lady.  I'm 
a  matchmaker,  not  a  bear.  And  what's  more,  let 
me  tell  you  I  have  young  men  to  suit  all  tastes, 
and  can  give  you  your  pick  of  the  best.  That's 
who  I  am  !  I  can  give  you  a  business-like  doctor 
or  a  doctor-like  business  man.  The  decision  is  left 
entirely  to  you,  entirely  to  you. 

Veea. 

[Choking  with  laughter.] 
Ha-ha-ha  !  .  .  .  A    business-like    doctor    or    a 
doctor-like  business  man  !   Ha-ha-ha  ! .  .  . 

Sholom. 

[Aside.] 

The  girl's  suspiciously  jolly,  she  is  .  .  .  [Aloud.] 

Your  health,  friend  Hyman  !    Your  health,   Mrs. 

Krendelman  !    And   Heaven  grant  us  a  wedding 

very  soon. 

Anna. 
Why  don't  you  say  something,  my  daughter  ? 
Tell  your  father,  —  that  tyrant,  that  despot,  — 


ii6      She  Must  Marry  a  Doctor 

tell  him  clearly  that  you'll  have  a  doctor,  and  not  a 
business  man. 

Sholom. 
Yes,  a  doctor,  and  not  a  business  man. 

Hyman. 
I  tell  you  she'll  marry  a  business  man  and  not 
a  doctor  ! 

Sholom. 
Yes,  a  business  man,  and  not  a  doctor. 

Anna. 

[Loudly.] 
A  doctor  !  A  doctor  ! 

Sholom. 
Yes,  a  doctor. 

Hyman. 

[Loudly.] 
A  business  man,  a  business  man  ! 

Sholom. 

[Exhausted.] 
Yes,  a  business  man. 

Anna. 

[Stamping  her  feet.] 
A  doctor  !  A  doctor  !  A  doctor  ! 


She  Must  Marry  a  Doctor      117 

Sholom. 
Yes,  a  doctor  !   A  doctor  !   A  doctor  !    Here's 
your    health,    friend    Hyman,    and    yours,    Mrs. 
Krendehnan  ! 

Vera. 

[Still  laughing.] 
Ha-ha-ha  !  A  doctor  !  A  doctor  !  A  doctor  ! 

Abram. 

[From  within.] 
A  doctor  !  A  doctor  ! 

[The  door  leading  to  the  kitchen  opens,  and 
Slottke  comes  running  in,  frightened  out 
of  her  wits,  holding  in  one  hand  a  duster  and 
in  the  other  a  towel.  Immediately  behind 
her  runs  Breine  the  cook,  holding  a  hand- 
kerchief and  smelling  salts.] 

Slottke. 
A  doctor  ?    Who  wants   the  doctor  ?    Which 
doctor  do  you  want  ?   I'll  run  and  get  him  right 
away  ! 

Breine. 
Oh  me  !   I'm  done  for  !   I've  been  struck  by  a 
thunderbolt  !    What  is   the  matter  here  ?    Has 
somebody  fainted  ?    Who's  fainted  ?    Who  needs 
the  doctor  ? 

[Vera  is  convulsed  with  laughter] 


ii8      She  Must  Marry  a  Doctor 

Anna. 
[Pushing  the  servants  roughly  aside.] 
May  all  the  evils  of  bad  dreams  descend  on  your 
heads,  your  hands  and  your  feet  !  Out  of  here,  you 
good-for-nothings!    Out    with  you,   you   dunder- 
heads, you  trash  ! 

[The  servants,  in  their  haste  to  get  out  of  the 
way  J  stumble  into  Sholom.] 

Sholom. 
By  Heaven,  before  these  people  make  up  their 
minds  between  yes  and  no  a  fellow  can  suffer  a 
broken  neck  ...  A  house  full  of  crazy  people  !  .  .  . 
Upon  my  faith,  what  they  all  need  is  a  doctor  .  .  . 
Yes,  siree,  as  much  as  life  itself  they  need  a  doctor  ! 
A  doctor  ! 


CURTAIN 


SHOLOM  ASH 


Since  the  death  of  Isaac  Leib  Perez  early  in  19 15, 
the  mantle  of  the  greatest  of  Yiddish  writers  has 
fallen  upon  the  shoulders  of  Sholom  Ash  and  with 
the  death  of  Sholom  Aleichem,  in  May,  1916, 
Ash  became  the  most  popular  Jewish  author  as 
well. 

Ash  was  bom  about  thirty-five  years  ago,  near 
Warsaw,  the  Mecca  of  Jewish  literary  men. 
Thither  he  went  at  the  age  of  nineteen,  and  at 
twenty-four  made  for  himself  a  reputation  with 
the  first  chapters  of  ^^The  Town''  and  a  drama 
^'Returned.''  He  has  been  called  the  Jewish 
de  Maupassant  (such  characterizations  are  frequent 
and  natural  to  a  literature  that  seeks  its  better 
standards  outside  of  its  own  pale)  but  such  a  com- 
parison is  applied  to  him  only  as  regards  his  tales. 
As  a  dramatist  he  has  won  the  lasting  friendship 
of  the  great  producer  Max  Rheinhardt,  who  made 
a  success  in  Berlin,  at  the  Deutsches  Theater j  of  a 
German  translation  of  Ash's  ''God  of  Vengeance,'' 

Ash  is  a  person  of  broad  and  deep  culture.  He 
reads  some  half-dozen  languages  with  ease,  is  a 
passionate  lover  of  art,  philosophy  and  nature,  and 

119 


120 


Sholom  Ash 


is  unceasingly  productive  in  all  literary  forms. 
To  him,  Hamlet  is  the  greatest  of  all  plays,  and  one 
writer  has  said  that  from  the  ghost  scene  in  this 
play  Ash  can  trace  Maeterlinck  and  all  the  mystics. 

He  has  been  accused  of  erotomania,  and  much  of 
his  work  would  seem  to  justify  the  accusation, 
although  wrong  inferences  are  easily  drawn. 
Such  a  play  as  ^^Jephthah^s  Daughter ^^  with  its 
dramatization  of  the  sex  impulse,  is  despite  its 
monotonous  sincerity  possessed  of  a  certain 
elemental  power,  and  is  essentially  moral.  ^^The 
God  of  Vengeance^'  is  an  impressive,  if  overdrawn 
study  in  the  retribution  visited  upon  parents  who 
own  a  brothel  which  finally  corrupts  their  own 
daughter.  Ash's  drunkards,  prostitutes  and  mys- 
terious women  are  parts  of  a  whole,  not  ends  in 
themselves. 

He  is  still  a  young  man,  however.  It  is  not  at 
all  impossible  that  his  real  work  has  not  yet  com- 
menced. His  latest  play  is  entitled  "A  String  of 
Pearls,"  and  was  suggested  by  the  European  War. 

Two  of  Ash's  one-act  plays  are  presented  in  this 
volume. 

^'Winter^^  requires  little  comment.  It  is  another 
instance  of  the  self-sacrificing  Jewish  sister.  A 
comparison  of  this  play  with  Pinski's  ^'Forgotten 
Souls"  helps  reveal  the  difference  between  Ash  and 
Pinski  as  dramatists. 

The   effect   of   '^The  Sinner,"   even   upon   the 


Sholom  Ash 


121 


reader  who  is  not  intimately  acquainted  with  the 
superstitions  which,  in  one  form  or  another,  are 
current  among  the  less  educated  of  all  races,  is 
that  of  a  blind  power.  We  cannot  deny  to  the 
writer  a  certain  Greek  strength,  even  if  after  a 
first  or  second  reading  we  are  puzzled  as  to  his 
meaning.  It  is  easy  for  the  religious  to  interpret 
the  play  as  being  orthodox;  the  advanced  may 
see  in  it  a  certain  sympathy  for  the  mysterious 
woman  in  black. 

Such  indecisive  symbolism  as  this  dramatic 
episode  reveals  is  characteristic  of  Jewish  taste 
both  in  reading  and  in  the  theatre.  The  Jewish 
temperament,  especially  when  not  yet  sophisticated 
by  contact  with  world-literature,  is  naturally 
given  to  a  love  of  mysticism,  symbolism  and 
allegory,  as  may  be  expected  from  its  Oriental 
origin.  This  temperamental  leaning  to  the  mystic 
and  the  symbolic  is  strongly  shown  not  only  in 
the  best  works  in  poetry  and  the  tale,  but  in  several 
ways  expresses  itself  in  drama.  Many  Yiddish 
plays,  to  the  Western  mind,  would  thus  seem  to 
lack  climax,  whereas  the  truth  is  that  the  Jewish 
reader  or  spectator  regards  the  work  as  a  picture, 
rather  than  a  progress.  Indeed,  the  regular  name 
for  the  popular  Yiddish  Broadway  melodramas 
(which  have  taken  over  the  American  recipe, 
thrills,  climaxes  and  all)  is  still  Lebensbildj  a  picture 
from  life.  '  \ 


122 


Sholom  Ash 


To  a  public  that  has  learned  to  appreciate 
Maeterlinck,  however,  The  Sinner  should  present 
little  difficulty.  It  is  useful  also  to  recall,  in  con- 
nection with  this  play,  its  author's  predilection  for 
HamleL 


WINTER 
A  Drama  in  One  Act 

By  SHOLOM  ASH 


f*/ 


PERSONS 

Deboeah,  a  widow ^  (60). 

Roma,  her  elder  daughter,  (32). 

Ulka,  the  younger  daughter,  (20). 

Mrs.  Grosberg,  a  matchmaker,  a  frequent  caller, 

(40). 

JuDAH,  a  poor  neighbor,  (40). 

Shprintze,  Deborah^ s  cook. 

Goldberg,  a  young  m^n  [Behind  the  scene]. 

The  action  takes  place  in  a  small  village^  situated 
up  North,  behind  the  mountains. 

A  cloudy  winter's  day,  near  noontime, 

124 


WINTER 

Scene:  Deborah^ s  home.  An  old  house  of  genteel 
provincial  type,  A  long,  narrow  room,  occupied 
by  the  girls.  The  furniture  is  already  outworn.  It 
consists  of  two  bedSj  at  the  right,  covered  with  white 
quilts;  in  front  of  each  bed  a  mirror,  and  between,  an 
old,  wide  wardrobe.  A  t  the  left,  two  windows,  curtained 
at  the  lower  halves.  Through  the  top  of  the  windows, 
in  the  distance,  may  be  seen  a  high,  snow-bedecked 
mountain.  Between  the  windows  is  an  old  dresser, 
covered  with  a  crocheted  cloth  upon  which  are  placed 
bric-a-brac,  porcelain  plates,  etc.  On  the  wall  above 
is  a  clock  which  has  stopped.  Around  about  are 
displayed  illustrations  which  have  been  clipped  from 
various  publications.  Glass  shelves,  here  and  there, 
contain  the  girW  knick-knacks.  To  the  right,  a 
door  leading  to  the  parlor.  In  the  background,  a 
door  with  a  white  curtain,  which  leads  to  an  outer 
room.  To  the  right  of  this  door,  a  wide  blackened 
stove  in  front  of  which  is  a  decrepit  sofa.  The  scene 
in  general  impresses  one  with  a  sense  ^  Deborah^ s 
refinement. 

Roma  and  Ulka  are  sitting  on  the  sofa,  absorbed 
in  reading. 

Deborah. 
{An    aged   woman    of   earnest    aspect.    She 
wears  pince-nez  and  is  dressed  in  a  thick, 
125 


126  Winter 

Hack  gown.  Paces  up  and  down  the  room ^ 
her  arms  hanging  loosely  by  her  side.  She 
is  engrossed  in  thought.] 

Roma. 
[A  tall  woman,  her  hair  combed  well  back  on 
her  forehead.  She  is  wrinkled  about  the 
eyes  and  mouth.  Wears  a  black  gown  and 
is  wrapped  in  a  heavy  shawl.  Her  eyes  are 
glued  fast  to  the  book.] 

Ulka. 
[A  lively  maiden.    She  wears  a  blouse^  and 
is  sitting  next  to  Roma.    From  time  to 
time  she  looks  up  from  her  reading.    For  a 
long  while  the  three  continue  as  above.] 

JUDAH. 

[An  emaciated  fellow  in  a  torn  coat.  Steals 
into  the  room,  trembling  with  the  cold,  and 
makes  for  the  stove,  behind  the  sofa,  where 
he  warms  himself.] 

Ulka. 
[Looks  up  from  the  book,  surprised.] 
Ah,  Judah  .  .  . 

[Turns  back  to  her  page.] 


Winter  127 

Deborah. 
[Turning  around,  and  seeing  Judah.] 
Is  that  yoU;  Judah  ?  Well,  what^s  the  news  ?  .  .  . 

Judah. 

[From  behind  the  stove.] 
News  ?    What  news  can  there  be  ?  —  He  who 
has  anything  to  eat,  eats.     He  who  hasn't,  goes 
hungry. 

Deborah. 
That's'  so.     [Resumes   her  pacing   to   and  fro.] 
Hasn't  any  business  showed  up  yet  ? 

Judah. 
Business  ?  Who  talks  business  today,  when  it's 
impossible  to  leave  the  village  or  to  get  into  it 
from  outside  ! 

Ulka.. 

[Looking  up.] 
Isn't  it  dreadful  ! 

Deborah. 
They  say  that  a  great  sleigh  has  been  sent  out, 
with  a  gang  of  men  to  clear  the  road. 

Judah. 
Much  they'll  be  able  to  do  !    The  wind,  over 
night,  blew  down  from  the  mountains  and  piled 
the  snow  way  up  high.     Zorach  was  just  telling 


128  Winter 

us  at  the  synagogue  that  he  wanted  to  go  to  town 
this  morning  and  he  was  nearly  buried  in  the  snow. 

Ulka. 
Isn't  that  dreadful  ! 

[A  prolonged  silence.] 

Shprintze. 

[At  the  door.] 
What  shall  I  cook  for  dinner  ? 

Deborah. 
I  haven't  the  slightest  notion.     [To  Ulka,  who 
is  staring  about  vacantly.]   What  ^all  she  cook  for 
dinner  ? 

Ulka. 
What's  that  to  me  ? 

[Resumes  her  reading.] 

Deborah. 

[To    the  cook.] 
Cook  anything  that  you  have  handy. 

Shprintze. 
Potatoes  ? 

Deborah. 
Let  it  be  potatoes,  then.     [To  Roma.]    Let's  see, 
I  don't  think  you're  very  fond  of  potatoes,  are  you  ? 


Winter  129 

[Roma  doesnH  answer.  The  cook  leaves. 
Pause.  Deborah  walks  slowly  about  the 
room,  her  hands  at  her  side.  Roma  reads 
on.] 

Ulka.. 
[She  stares  about   aimlessly,   then  suddenly 
jumps  up  and  looks  around.] 
How  late  is  it,  I  wonder  ?   [Nobody  makes  reply. 
She  looks  at  the  clock.]  Fine  clock  youVe  got  here. 
It  never  goes. 

[Enter  Mrs.  Grosberg.  A  thin,  tall  woman. 
Wisps  of  hair  show  from  under  her  wig, 
around  which  she  wears  a  black  ribbon. 
Her  clothes  show  signs  of  once  having  been 
costly,  even  as  her  general .  appearance  re- 
veals an  air  of  lost  prestige.  An  tirtificial 
smile  plays  upon  her  features.] 

Mrs.  Grosberg. 
Good  morning  !  I  see  the  children  are  hugging 
the  stove.  What  else  can  you  do  in  a  little  village 
like  this  ?  Outside  my  house,  —  winter.  Inside 
my  house,  winter  ...  So  I  stepped  in  to  see  you 
for  a  while,  Deborah. 

Deborah. 
[Seeing  Mrs,  Grosberg,  she  stops  where  slie  is. 
For  a  moment  she  looks  at  her  daughters,  in 
fright.     Speaks  with  assumed  cheerfulness,] 


130  Winter 

Mrs.  Grosberg  !    How  glad  I  am  to  see  you  ! 
Tell  me,  how  are  you  getting  along  ? 

Mrs.  Grosberg.  jN^  t"  '^ 

[Goes  near  the^window.] 
How  should  I  be  getting  along  ?  —  Bad  weather 
outside. 

Roma. 
[Upon  Mrs.^  Grosberg^ s  entrance  she  has 
become  more  than  ever  absorbed  in  the  book. 
Rises  nervously,  concealing  her  perturba- 
tion beneath  a  mask  of  unconcern.  Goes 
to  the  dresser,  fumbles  about  for  something, 
then  goes  back  to  her  place,  stealing  a  glance 
at  Ulka  as  she  passes.  The  latter  has 
blushed  a  deep  red.  Roma  betrays  surprise 
for  a  second,  then  continues  her  reading, 
mumbling  rather  loudly,  with  strong  accent. 
Finally  she  gets  up  and  without  a  word 
rushes  out  through  the  rear  door,  dragging 
her  shawl  along.  The  shawl  drops,  but 
she  doesnH  stop  to  pick  it  up.  There  is  a 
profound  silence.  Deborah  feigns  not  to 
notice  it.  Mrs.  Grosberg  looks  outisde 
and  talks  about  the  weather  .  .  .  Ulka  reads 
on,  and  finally  arises  and  goes  out  through 
the  door  at  the  right.] 


Winter  131    > 

Deborah. 
Why  are  they  running  away  like  that,  I  wonder  ? 
What  makes  them  run  away  ? 

Mrs.  Grosberg. 

[Pulls  her  by  the  sleeve.] 
Never  mind.    It^s  all  the  better. 

Deborah. 
[Roused.    Looks  at  her  as  if  to  speak ,  then 
changes  her  mind.] 

Mrs.  Grosberg. 

\With  assumed  cheerfulness.] 
Do  you  know  ?  .  .  .  He's  coming  .  .  .  The  young 
man  is  coming  to  her  .  .  . 

Deborah. 

[Surprised  and  frightened.] 
Who  ?  Whom  do  you  mean  ? 

Mrs.  Grosberg. 
He  was  told  very  expressly:  a  young  girl,  scarcely 
eighteen,  slender,  beautiful .  .  .  Here  [Feels  in  her 
pocket.]  Schwartzberg  writes  me  that  the  yoimg 
man  is  on  the  way.  He'll  arrive  as  an  agent,  rep- 
resentative of  the  firm  Block  and  Company  .  .  . 

Deborah. 
Good  heavens,  in  weather  like  this  ? 


132  Winter 

f    Vv  Mrs.  Grosberg. 

Y^  \       "  [Laughing] 

What  is  weather  like   this,  when  a  fellow  is 
coining  for  a  sweetheart  ? 

Deborah. 
[Not  quite  understanding  her.] 
But  so  quickly  ?  So  quickly  ? 

Mrs.  Grosberg.  "^ 

[Comes  close  to  Deborah,] 
Strike  your  iron  while  it's  hot  .  .  .  When  it  cools 
off  .  .  .  Deborah  —  [Looks  her  straight  in  the  face.] 
Are  you  going  to  make  the  same  mistake  over  H  / 
again?  .  .  .  Haven't  you  learned  a  lesson  from 
your  elder  daughter  ? 

Deborah. 
But  so  soon  !  .  .  .  Good  God  in  heaven,  what 
will  this  come  to  ? 

[Stands  in  a  dilemma]  [^ 

Mrs.  Grosberg..  ,  ' 

Deborah,  don't  lose  any  time  .  .  .  Is  the  parlor     i 
in  order  ?    [To  Judah.]    Call  in  Shprintze,  please^--^^^' 
[Judah  goes  out.]    Deborah,  consider  what  you're  r, 


•^'^? 


doing.  ^^'^ 

Deborah. 

But  in  the  name  of  heaven,  what  would  you  have 
me  do  ?  Take  my  child  and  bury  her  with  my  own 
hands  ? 


Winter  133 

Shprintze. 


[At  the  door.] 


What  do  you  wish,  madam  ? 


Mrs  Grosberg. 
My  dear  Shprintze,  is  the  parlor  in  order  ?   Go, 
please  see  that  it's  all  swept  out  nice  and  clean. 
There  are  guests  coming  today.     You'll  get  some 

tips.  /'   '^^-^    ■■ 

Shprintze.  ^ 

Yes,  fine  guests.     There  won't  be  any  more  of 

the  kind  we  used  to  have  .  .  . 

jp*^  Mrs  Grosberg. 

'.  .  .  Yes  there  will.  The  old  kind  of  guests  are 
going  to  come  again  .  .  .  And  you'll  get  the  kind 
of  tips  you  used  to  get .  .  .  Come,  we've  got  to 
see  that  things  are  put  in  order  .  .  .  We  have 
only  two  hours. 

Shprintze. 
[Looks  incredulously  at  Deborah.] 
(Shall  we  get  things  ready,  madam  ? 

Deborah. 
I  really  — 

Mrs.  Grosberg. 

[To  Shprintze.] 
I  tell  you  yes.     [Makes  a  sign  to  her.]     Hurry. 

[The  cook  leaves.] 


134  Winter 

Deborah. 
[Near  the  table.    Waits  for  Mrs.  Grosherg 
to  speak.]  ^^       ^ 

Mrs.  Grosberg. 

Remember    what    I'm    telKng    you,    Deborah. 
You  mustn't  let  yourself  sacrifice  ooie  daughter  for 
the  sake  of  the  other.     Don't  forget  that  Ulka  is 
twenty  years  old.    A  yoimg  girl,  my  friend,  is  like  ;^^ 
an  apple  on  the  tree.     It's  beautiful  and  appetiz- ^^^n 
ing  as  long  as  it's  ripe.     Once  it  gets  ripe  it  must^ 
ask  for  someone  to  come  along  and  eat  it,  and  say 
grace  over  it.     If  it  stays  there  too  long,  it  begins 
to  decay  .  .  .  Deborah,  strike  the  iron  while  it's 
hot .  .  .  Don't  forget  that  time  and  tide  wait  for  5 
no  man. 

Deborah. 

But  what  will  become  of  my  elder  daughter  ? 

Mrs  Grosberg. 
Are  you  going  to  let  her  stand  in  your  way  ? 
Don't  let  that  worry  you.    It's  better  so. 

Deborah. 
And  what  am  I  to  do  ? 

Mrs.  Grosberg. 
Nothing.    Leave  everything  to  me. 

[Goes  out.    Returns  with  Ulka.] 


Ulka. 
What  do  you  wish,  mama  dear  ? 


Winter  135 

Ulka. 


Mrs.  Grosberg. 

There's  nothing  about  this  to  be  ashamed  of. 
There's  nothing  to  hide,  either  .  .  .  It's  an  ack- 
nowledged misfortune,  and  nobody's  to  blame. 
Your  sister  was  very  particular.  This  fellow  didn't 
suit  her,  that  one  didn't,  until  she  was  left  an  old 
maid.  It's  a  hard  matter  to  find  a  good  match 
now.  You  can't  expect  to  do  much  with  the  two 
thousand  roubles  that  your  father  left  you  .  .  . 
And  until,  with  God's  help,  Roma  will  find  a 
proper  match,  a  second  misfortune  can  befall 
this  household  .  .  . 

Ulka.. 

[Blushing.] 

—  Yes,  yes,  but  —  but  what  am  I  to  —  ? 

Mrs.  Grosberg. 
Nothing  at  all.    Today  a  young  man  is  coming 
to  visit  you  .  .  . 

■ Ulka. 

[Frightened.] 
Me  ?  Roma  is  older  than  I  ! 

Mrs.  Grosberg. 
Nobody  can  help  that.    That's  a  misfortune, 
as  I  said  .  .  .  And  you  oughtn't  to  suffer  on  that 


136  Winter 

account .  .  .  That^s  life  —  If  you  expect  to  wait 
until  she's  married  first,  then  I'm  afraid  you'll 
have  to  wait  a  long,  long  time  .  .  .  Today  is  your 
,chance.  See  to  it  that  you  take  your  opportunity 
while  you  may,  and  not  be  left  in  your  sister's 
^  plight.  Remember,  you've  only  a  dowry  of  two 
thousand  roubles  .  .  . 

Ulka. 
I  know  nothing  at  all  .  .  .  What  does  mama 
say  to  all  this  ? 

Mrs.  Grosberg. 
Your  mother  ?  What  can  she  say,  poor  woman  ? 
.  .  .  It's  enough  of  a  weight  on  her  shoulders, 
either  way  .  .  .  Both  Roma  and  you  are  her  flesh 
and  blood.  She  suffers  from  both  sides  .  .  .  But 
what  can  she  do,  after  all,  if  she  can  help  only  one, 
and  not  the  other  ? 

Ulka. 
I  leave  everything  to  mother.    I'll  do  what  she 
tells  me  to. 

Mrs.  Grosberg. 
Your  mother'U  tell  you  to  go  and  dress  up  right 
away,  for  it's  getting  late,  and  he'll  be  here  in  an 
hour. 

[Ulka  leaves,] 


Winter  137 

Deborah. 
[Who  has  been  standing  during  this  conversa- 
tion with  her  arms  dropped  at  her  sides. 
Suddenly  exclaims.] 
What  shall  I  do  ?  What  shall  I  do  ? 

Mrs.  Grosberg. 
What  to  do  ?  You  see  that  everything  is  in 
first-class  order.  See  that  Ulka  is  all  dressed  up, 
and  hide  your  elder  daughter  somewhere  or  other, 
lest  he  should  discover  —  God  forbid  !  —  that  there 
is  an  elder  daughter  in  the  family  .  .  .  That  makes 
people  imagine  things  ...  It  can  spoil  matters.  .  . 

Deborah. 
We  used  always  to  hide  the  yoimger  one  when 
any  young  man  came  calling  —  now  we  have  to 
hide   the  elder.    Poor,   poor   Roma  !    That  you 
should  have  been  born  for  this  ! 

Mrs.  Grosberg. 
That's  her  luck,  poor  girl  !  .  .  .  And  she  alone 
is  to  blame  .  .  .  Well,  I  must  be  going.  Deborah, 
don't  lose  any  time.  It's  growing  late.  [As  she 
goes  out.]  Deborah,  remember,  it's  a  matter  of 
your  child's  happiness. 

[Leaves.  Deborah  is  left  standing  in  the 
middle  of  the  room,  in  silent  doubt. —  Sev- 
eral  times  she  approaches  the  door,  is  about 


138  Winter 

to  turn  the  knob,  and  then  changes  her  mind. 
Walks  rapidly  away  from  the  door  to  the 
window.  The  door  opens,  and  Roma  enters, 
humming  a  tune.  Goes  to  the  dresser  as  if 
in  search  of  something.] 


Roma. 


[To  herself] 


She's  already  gone. 

Deborah. 

{Turning  suddenly  from  the  window.] 
Tell  me,  my  daughter,  once  for  all,  what  is  the 
end  of  all  this  going  to  be  ? 

Roma. 

[Stopping  where  she  is.] 

How  is  it  that  this  seems  to  bother  you  so  much 

today  ?  Has  that  old  thing  been  in  here  again  to 

fill  your  ears  with  her  talk  ?  I'll  slam  the  door  in 

her  face  next  time  she  comes  ! 

[She  is  about  to  leave  the  room  in  a  huff.] 

Deborah. 

[At  her  heels,  calling.] 
Roma  !  Roma  !  I  want  to  tell  you  something. 

Roma. 

[Turns  on  the  threshold.] 
What  is  it  you  wish  to  say  ? 


Winter  139 

[Awaits  her  mother^s  reply  anxiously.  Finally 
she  sits  down  upon  the  sofa  nearby.] 

Deborah. 
Tell  me,  what  shall  I  do  ?    What  shall  your 
unhappy  mother  do  ? 

Roma. 
[Gazes  silently  upon  her  mother.] 
What  do  you  want  of  me  ?  Am  I  a  burden  here  ? 
Then  I'll  go  out  and  earn  my  own  living. 

Deborah. 
Woe  is  me  !    You  know  right  well  what's  the 
matter.    What's  the  use  of  all  this  talk  ?  —  But 
I  am  your  mother,  after  all.    My  heart  is  torn 
with  pity  — 

Roma. 

[With  feigned  laughter.] 
Pity  .  .  .  But  I  beg  you,  mother,  don't  waste 
any  pity  on  me  .  .  .  [Pause.  Then,  with  anger.] 
Good  God,  I  don't  know  .  .  .  [Stops.  Suddenly 
continues.]  What  right  has  anyone  to  pity  me  ? 
..  .  .  Who's  asking  any  one  to  meddle  in  my  affairs  ? 
I'm  satisfied.  I  don't  care  to  marry  —  Then 
whose  business  is  it  ? 

Deborah. 
I'm  your  mother.    After  all  is  said  and  done, 
I  can't  look  on  without  my  heart  breaking. 


^ 


140  Winter 

Roma. 

[Shouting,] 
But  if  I  don't  care,  who  should  bother  about  it  ? 

Deborah. 
But  what  can  I  do  ?    It's  breaking  my  heart, 
I  tell  you.     How  can  I  help  it,  when  I  see  you,  a 
girl  of  thirty,  sitting  around  the  house  and  .  .  . 

Roma. 

[Interrupting.] 
Why  should  that  bother  anybody  ?    Why  ?    I 
simply  don't  care  to  marry  —  it's  nobody's  bus- 
iness. 

Deborah. 
But  remember.  [Comes  near  to  Roma  and  whis- 
pers to  her.]  And  Ulka  ?  .  .  . 

Roma. 

[Aloud.] 
Who's  preventing  her  from  getting  married  ?  ^ 

Deborah. 
You,  you  ! 

Roma. 
II...  Well  then,  I  yield  my  place  to  her. 

[Is  lost  in  thought.     Takes  up  the  book  nearby 
and  glances  over  its  pages.] 


Winter  141 

Deborah. 
[At  her  wit^s  end.    Several  times' she  is  about 
to  approach  Roma,  then  retreats.  Finally 
she  sits  down  in  a  corner ,  and  talks  to 
herself.] 
Unhappy  mother  that  I  am  !    Good   God  in 
heaven,  what  shall  I  do  ?   Whither  shall  I  turn  ? 
[She  looks  at  Roma.    Roma,  engrossed  in  her  thoughts, 
makes  no  response.    For  a  long  while  not  a  word  is 
said.    Suddenly  sounds  of  activity  are  heard  in  the 
next  room.    JudaWs  cheerful  mice  is  giving  orders. 
^^Put  the  oleander  near  the  window  ^^ ,  .  .  '^The  cur- 
tain  is  hiding  the  mirror^' .  .  .  Roma  looks  at  her 
mother,  as  if  for  an  explanation  of  the  house-cleaning. 
Deborah  looks  out  of  the  window,  avoiding  her  daugh- 
ter's glance.    Finally  she  speaks.]  Terrible  weather 
outside.     [In   a  tremulous  voice.]  I   can't  under- 
stand why  we  don't  get  a  letter  from  imcle. 

Roma. 
[Does  not  reply.    After  a  while  she  arises, 
goes  over  to  the  dresser,  looks  for  something 
and  tries  to  hide  her  emotions  by  murmuring 
a  tune.] 
"The  sun  sinks  low  in  the  West,  in  a  fiery  sky, 
in  a  fiery  sky  ..." 

Deborah. 
[Suddenly,  in  a  weary,  tearful  voice.] 
Daughter,  tell  me,  am  I  not  your  mother  ?  [Her 


142  Winter 

voice  is  choked  with  tears.]  Or  can  it  be  that  I  don't 
know  ... 

[She  weeps  bitterly,] 

Roma. 

Mother,  what  do  you  want  of  me  ?  .  .  .  Ah  ! .  .  . 

*         [She  leaves  the  dresser,  seizes  the  book  which 

has  been  left  on  the  table,  and  takes  it  with 

her  to  her  place  on  the  sofa.    Affects  deep 

interest  in  the  book.] 

Deborah. 
Why  are  you  playing  make-believe  with  me  ? 
As  if  I  were  a  total  stranger  to  you  .  .  .  Isn't  your 
trouble  my  trouble  ? .  .  .  Ulka  is  growing  up,  fair 
of  stature.  People  have  come  to  talk  matches. 
Day  after  day  goes  by  .  .  .  Time  flies  .  .  .  She's 
getting  older;  she's  twenty  already.  Why,  a  girl 
is  usually  a  wife  at  that  age.  What  can  I,  a  poor 
widow,  do  ?  Gk)d  in  heaven,  what  shall  I  do  ? 

Roma. 

[As  if  reading  from  the  book.] 
They  want  to  marry  her  off  already. 

Deborah. 
And  how  about  yourself  ?  What  will  the  end  be  ? 


Winter  143 

Roma. 

[With  feigned  laughter.] 
What  shall  it  be  ?  I'll  Hve  and  I'll  die. 


Deborah. 
What  kind  of  life  do  you  call  that  ?  Sitting  by 
the  stove  day  and  night,  reading  books.  What 
good  are  the  books,  anyway  ?  You're  wasting  your 
life  with  tales  about  other  people  ...  To  what 
purpose  ?  To  what  good  ?  .  .  .  I  spoke  to  you 
about  it,  I  warned  you;  not  only  once,  nor  twice  — 
"Roma,  Roma,"  I  said  to  you,  "don't  let  your 
opportunities  go  by  !"  .  .  .  And  you  would  talk 
with  this  fellow,  go  out  walking  with  that  one, 
until  a  wretch  came  along  who  made  you  all  kinds 
of  glowing  promises .  .  .You  were  as  fresh  as  a  rose 
then.  And  they  came  along  to  breathe  your  per- 
fume and  leave  .  .  .  Then  the  rose  lost  its  bloom 
and  its  perfume  evaporated  .  .  .  Every  girl  has  her 
season;  once  it  passes,  she  is  lost ...  I  warned  you, 
but  you  wouldn't  Hsten.  What  could  I,  your 
unhappy  mother,  do  ? 

Roma. 
Then  the  upshot  of  all  this  is  that  you  want  me 
to  get  married  ?  —  Very  well,  then.  I'll  get  mar- 
ried. She's  been  here  already.  They're  putting 
the  house  in  order.  There's  a  prospective  bride- 
groom coming  today.  —  Very  well  —  I'll  not  ask 


144  Winter 

who  he  is  —  I'll  not  even  look  at  him  to  see  whether 
I  like  him  or  not  —  I'm  satisfied.  I'll  marry  first, 
if  you  wish  it. 

[Secretly  glad  at  the  opportunity y  having  mis- 
taken Deborah^s  intention,  and  being  un- 
aware that  the  young  man  is  coming  to  visit 
not  her,  but  Ulka.\ 


Deborah. 
But .  .  .  my  daughter  ! .  .  . 


[Frightened^ 


/ 


Roma. 
Very  well,  very  well,  since  you  desire  it .  .  . 
It  makes  no  difference  to  me  whatever  .  .  .  I'll 
marry  right  away  .  .  .  Once  and  for  all  you'll  stop 
bothering  me  .  .  .  I'm  satisfied.  I'll  go  and  dress 
up  right  away  .  .  .  Where's  my  gown  ?  .  .  .  I'll 
be  just  as  meek  as  you  wish,  as  long  as  you  say  so  .  . 
[Runs  into  the  other  room.]  But  remember,  don't 
find  any  fault  with  me  afterwards. 

Deborah. 

[In  anxious  dilemma.] 

Good  heavens,  what  am  I  going  to  do  now  ? 

{A  short  silence.    It  grows  dark.     Ulka  comes 

running  in,  wearing  a  new  silk  blouse^  not 

yet  buttoned^ 


Winter  i4s 

Ulka. 
Mamma,  please  button  my  blouse. 

Deborah. 
[Approaches  her  with  great  tenderness,] 
Come,   my  darling.    Let  me  help  you  dress. 
Your    bridegroom's    coming    today.    Poor    little 
fatherless  child. 

Roma. 

[From  the  other  room,] 
What  kind  of  dress  shall  I  put  on,  mother  ? 
My  reception  gown  ? 

[Deborah  makes  no  reply,    Continties  fixing 
up  Ulka,] 

Ulka. 
Mamma,  Roma's  calling  you. 

Deborah. 
That's  all  right,  my  darling.     Never  mind.  May 
Heaven  bring  you  honor  and  happiness. 

Roma. 

[From  within,] 
Where's  Ulka  ?   Let  her  help  me  dress.  [Looks 
on  the  stage,  but  it  is  quite  dark,  and  she  does  not 
recognize   Ulka]    Who's  there  ? 

[No  reply,  as  if  neither  Deborah  nor  Ulka  had 
noticed  her.] 


146  Winter 

Deborah. 

[Continuing  with  Ulka.] 
Wait  a  moment,  dear.  Your  father  —  may  his 
soul  rest  in  peace  —  left  me  a  string  of  pearls  to 
put  around  your  neck  when  a  prospective  bride- 
groom should  come,  so  that  you  might  find  favor 
in  his  eyes. 

Roma. 
[She  has  grasped  the  situation,  and  sees  that 
the  young  man  is  coming  for  Ulkaj  not  her. 
For  a  moment  she  is  overcome.     The  silk 
shawl  drops  from  her  hand.    At  first  she 
wishes  to  steal  out  of  the  room  unnoticed, 
hut  that  is  impossible.    She  goes  over  very 
quietly  to  Deborah  and  Ulka,  and  speaks  in 
a  soft  voice.] 
Allow  me,  mother.     I'll  dress  her  for  the  bride- 
groom. 

[The  mother  yields  Ulka  to  Roma,  and  goes  out. 
Ulka,  her  head  bowed  in  shame,  tries  to 
follow  her  mother,    Roma  restrains  her.] 

Roma. 
Why  should  you  feel  ashamed  before  me,  sister 
dear  ?  .  .  .  I  know  all  about  it .  .  .  Don't  be  afraid 
on  my  score  .  .  .  Don't  be  ashamed  .  .  .  Aren't 
you  my  sister  ?  Isn't  your  happiness  my  happiness 
.  .  .  my  —  happiness  ? 


Winter  147 

Ulka. 

[Stands  confused,  undecided.] 

Roma. 
Come,  sister,  let  me  comb  up  your  hair.  [Ulka 
kneels  before  her,  and  Roma  begins  to  comb  her  sister^ s 
hair.]  Your  hair,  sister,  is  beautiful,  silken,  and 
black  as  the  night.  .  .  There  is  such  an  air  of  refine- 
ment about  you  .  .  .  You'll  make  a  stunning  bride. 

[Braids  Ulka^s  hair.] 

Ulka. 

[Suddenly  jerks  herself  away  from  Roma,  then 
falls  upon  her  sister^s  bosom  and  weeps 
bitterly.] 

Roma. 

[Lifting  Ulka^s  head,  and  feigning  laughter.] 
You  dear  little  fool,  you,  what  are  you  crying 
about  ?  Because  you're  going  to  marry  ?  Just  the 
contrary  !  You  should  be  happy  ! 

[Ulka  embraces  Roma  with  greater  vehemence 
and  breaks  into  sobbing,  which  continues  for 
some  time.  Roma  meanwhile  straightens 
out  Ulka^shair.  Sleighbells  are  heard  outside. 
Roma  pulls  Ulka  up  and  hastily  finishes 
dressing  her  .  .  .  Footsteps  are  heard  outside. 


148  Winter 

Goldberg. 

[Within.] 
I  have  the  honor  to  present  myself  —  My  name 
is    Goldberg.    I   represent    the   firm   Block   and 
Company. 

Deborah. 

[Within.] 
Highly  honored  .  .  .  [Footsteps  are  heard,  as  if 
people  are  passing  from  one  room  to  another.  The 
door  at  the  right  opens.  A  stream  of  light  is  cast  on 
the  darkened  stage.  Deborah'' s  head  may  he  seen  at 
the    door.    Deborah    continues.]  Ulka,    allow    me. 

[Ulka  looks  at  Roma.] 

Roma. 

[Wipes  the  tears  from  Ulka^s  eyes,  and  pushes 

her  towards  the  door.] 
Go  .  .  .  ,Go  .  .  .  Go  .  .  . 

[Ulka  makes  no  resistance.     Goes  in  through 

the  door  at  the  right  and  closes  it  behind  her. 

The  stage  is  again  left  in  darkness.] 

Ulka. 

[Within.] 
Vm  very  much  pleased  to  meet  you. 

[Someone  closes  the  shutters  from  the  out- 
side .  .  .  The  stage  becomes  darker  still 
.  .  .  Through  the  interstices  of  the  shutters 


Winter  149 

stream  red  beams  of  the  setting  sun.  After 
a  short  while  Judah  comes  in  from  the  rear 
door.] 

Judah. 
[Sees  Roma  and  is  about  to  step  back.  Coughs 
to  attract  her  attention,  then  goes  behind  the 
stove  to  warm  up.] 

Roma. 
[Seeing  Judah,  she  makes  believe  looking  for 
something.     Then,  with  a  light  step,  she 
goes  toward  the  rear  room,  affecting  only 
then  to  notice  Judah.] 

Ah,  Judah  !  Well,  how  is  it  outside  ? 

Judah. 

[Rubbing  his  hands.] 
It's  getting  awful  cold  .  .  . 


CURTAIN 


I 


THE   SINNER 
Drama  in  One  Act 

BySHOLOM  ASH 


PERSONS. 

The  Town  Rabbi. 

First  DAyon,  Synagogue  Judge. 

Second  Dayon. 

The  Gabbai  of  the  Chevra  Kadisha,  President  of 
the  Burial  Society. 

Elder  Gravedigger. 

Younger  Gravedigger. 

First,  Second,  Third,  Fourth,  Fifth  and  Sixth 
Persons  in  the  Crowd. 

An  Old  Jew. 

The  Beadle. 

A  Woman  in  a  Black  Veil. 

A  Beggar. 

A  Crowd  of  Jewish  Men,  Women  and  Young- 
sters. 


152 


THE  SINNER 


Scene:  A  Jewish  cemetery  in  a  small  town  in 
Russian-Poland.  Surrounding  the  cemetery  is  a 
low,  dilapidated  wooden  fence.  Here  and  there  stand 
stunted  trees  with  thick  foliage,  in  whose  shadows  half 
tombstones  arise  from  the  tall-growing  wild  grass. 
In  the  middle  of  the  graveyard  an  enclosurCj  grown 
over  with  trees;  nearby  stands  an  old  Jew,  in  silent 
prayer.  To  the  right  there  is  a  tumbledown  hut  with 
two  crude  windows  that  face  the  burial-ground.  Behind 
the  hut  a  dark  gate,  in  front  of  which  loom  two  tall, 
black  posts.  On  the  posts  are  nailed  tin  plaques, 
inscribed  in  Hebrew  j  with  prayers  for  the  dead. 

Before  the  hut,  among  the  sunken  gravestones, 
graze  some  goats  that  are  tied  to  posts  which  have  been 
driven  into  the  earth.  By  the  door,  upon  a  ram- 
shackle wagon,  sits  the  town  beggar,  in  a  ragged 
cloak  that  has  been  thrown  over  his  naked,  tanned 
body.    He  glares  fixedly  before  him,  eyes  distended. 

On  the  further  side  of  the  fence  may  be  discerned  a 
dark  road  that  winds  in  and  out  among  the  green 
fields.  Far  of,  in  the  light  of  a  flaming  sunset, 
appear  distinctly  the  roofs  of  houses  and  a  high 
church  steeple.  Within  the  fence  the  diggers  are  at 
work  upon  a  new  grave,  near  which  lie  some  boards 
for  the  enclosure.     To  the  left,  tombstones  and  trees. 

153 


154  The  Sinner 

Younger  Geavedigger. 
Well,  his  turn  has  come  at  last.    He  carried  his 
pitcher  to  the  well  until  — 

Elder  Gravedigger. 
WeVe  seen  his  like  before.     That  fellow  who 
lies  over  there  by  the  fence,  next  to  the  chap  that 
hanged  himself,  was  even  worse. 

Younger  Gravedigger. 
—  This  one  would  sit  in  the  cafe  on  the  Day  of 
Atonement,  eating  roast  chicken  and  butter.  * 

Elder  Gravedigger. 
With  which  to  feed  the  worms  in  his  grave. 

Younger  Gravedigger. 
They  didn't  find  even  a  praying-shawl  in  his 
home  for  the  burial  service. 

Elder  Gravedigger. 
He  was  a  bachelor,  wasn't  he  ? 

Younger  Gravedigger. 
Oh,  he  lived  with  some  woman  or  other.  Gentile, 
or  Jewess.     Devil  knows  whether  she  was  his  wife 
or  his  mistress. 

*A  double  sin,  since  fasting  is  enjoined  for  atonement  day, 
and  the  eating  of  milk-products  with  meat  is  against  Mosaic 
Law. 


The  Sinner  155 

Elder  Gravedigger. 
I  shouldn't  want  to  reap  the  reward  of  his  merits. 

Younger  Gravedigger. 
And  she  gave  them  perfumed  soap  to  wash  the 
corpse  with.    Perfumed  soap  ! 

Elder  Gravedigger. 
Much  good  his  perfumed  body  will  do  him,  with 
a  soul  so  unclean  ! 

Younger  Gravedigger. 
The  burial  society  refused  to  carry  out  his  body. 
She  had  to  hire  four  pall-bearers.  [He  throws  up  a 
shovelful  of  earth  J  and  bones  fall  out.] 

Elder  Gravedigger. 
Look  !  These  are  bones. 

[Stops  digging.    Looks  closely  at  the  bones.] 

Younger  Gravedigger. 
Right  you  are.    Bones. 

[Stops  digging  and  looks  at  the  old  man.] 

Elder  Gravedigger. 
Bones.  We  must  put  them  back.  [They  replace 
the  bones  J  covering  them  again  with  earth.]  The  grave- 
yard is  moving.  This  must  once  upon  a  time  have 


156  The  Sinner 

been  the  best  location,  and  now  it's  near  the  fence.  * 
Here  we  now  bury  hanged  men  and  thieves.  The 
place  is  forgotten,  and  the  fence  is  built  right  over 
it.  The  tombstones  sink  and  there  isn't  a  trace  of 
a  grave  left. 

[Darkness  comes  on,  and  a  cold  wind  blows 
through  the  trees.  Upon  the  dark  road  on 
the  further  side  of  the  fence  approaches  the 
burial  cortege.  The  corpse  is  carried  by 
four  pall-bearers;  behind  walks  a  woman  in 
mourning,  her  face  concealed  in  a  black 
veil.  Somewhat  further  behind  her  follow 
a  few  inquisitive  youngsters.  Among  these 
is  the  Gabbai  of  the  Chevra  Kadisha,  a 
middle-aged  person  with  swarthy  face  and 
black,  thick  eyebrows.  The  people  go  in 
groups,  conversing  quietly. \ 

Younger  Gravedigger. 
They're  coming  with  the  corpse. 

Elder  Gravedigger. 
WeVe  got  to  wait  for  the  Gabbai. 

[The  diggers  stand  up  in  the  grave  so  as  to  look 
through  the  fence,  and  they  beckon  to  the 
Gabbai.] 

Gabbai. 
[Sticking  his  head  through  the  fence.] 
What  ?  The  grave's  not  ready  yet  ? 
*  i.e.,  The  worst  location,  reserved  for  suicides,  renegades,  etc. 


The  Sinner  157 

Elder  Gravedigger. 
We  found  human  bones  as  we  dug.  .  .  So  we 
filled  the  grave  in  again. 

Gabbai. 
Bones!  .  .  .  [Leaving  the  fence,]    How  do  bones 
come  here  ? 

[The  black  gate  opens  noisily.  The  corpse  is 
carried  in  on  the  shoulders  oj  the  pall- 
hearers^  and  placed  near  the  posts.  The 
upper  hoard  is  removed.  The  hody  may 
he  seen  hehind  the  black  shroud,  whence 
protrude  two  feet  and  a  head.  The  woman 
in  black  stands  near  the  head,  face  buried 
in  her  hands.  She  is  silent  .  .  .  The  bearers 
are  about  to  take  up  the  corpse  again,  when 
the  voice  of  the  Gabbai  is  heard.] 

Gabbai 
Halt  !  Halt  ! 

[The  crowd,  in  small  groups,  stands  aloof,  now 
looking  at  the  corpse,  now  at  the  woman. 
There  is  a  subdued  whispering.  A  short 
silence.] 

First  Person. 

[Sarcastically.] 
The  corpse  waits  for  its  grave.    A  good  omen  ! 


158  The  Sinner 

Second  Person. 
Hell  itself  is  in  no  hurry  to  welcome  him. 

[More  whispering  among  the  groups.  The 
woman  in  black  approaches,  and  is  about  to 
raise  the  black  coverlet  from  the  head  of  the 
corpse.] 

Gabbai. 
Don't  let  her  do  that  !  She  mustn't  ! 


The  Woman. 
Let  me  see  him  only  once  more. 
Gabbai. 


[In  Polish.] 


[From  within.] 
It  is  forbidden. 

[The  woman  goes  back  to  her  position  at  the 
head  of  the  corpse.    She  is  silent.] 

First  Person. 
Who  is  she? 

Second  Person. 
She  came  with  him  from  over  the  border.  No- 
body can  say  whether  she  was  his  wife  or  his 
mistress,  or  whether  she  is  Jewish  or  Gentile.  She's 
never  been  seen  in  a  synagogue,  or  in  a  church,  for 
that  matter. 


The  Sinner  159 

Third  Person. 
She's  the  only  one  left  to  pray  for  his  soul. 

Gabbai. 
[To  the  gravediggerSj  indicating  a  place  near 
the  fence] 
See  if  you  can  dig  here. 

Elder  Gravedigger. 
Near  the  fellow  who  hanged  himself  ? 

Younger  Gravedigger. 
They'll  make  a  good  pair  of  chums. 

[The  diggers  commence  to  dig.\ 


[Sarcastically.] 


First  Person. 

A  worthy  grave,  indeed  ! 

Second  Person. 
No  worse  than  he  deserved. 


Third  Person. 
Let  him  be  sure  that  he  remembers  his  own  name 
when  the  angel  Domai  asks  it.* 

Fourth  Person. 

He'll  talk  Polish  with  the  angel. 

*  The  angel's  request  must  be  answered  with  a  passage  from 
the  Psalms,  which  sinners  cannot  remember. 


i6o  The  Sinner 

Fifth  Person. 
He'll  offer  him  a  Sabbath-cigarette.* 

Sixth  Person. 
With  roast  chicken  and  butter. 

The  Old  Jew. 
Be  merciful.     He's  dead  now. 

A  Group  in  the  Crowd. 
It's  a  shame  !  To  mock  the  dead  ! 

[Silence.] 
Younger  Gravedigger. 
My  spade  sKdes  into  the  earth  altogether  too 
easily,  as  if  there  weren't  any  earth  there  at  all. 

Elder  Gravedigger. 
I'm  afraid  that  — 

Younger  Gravedigger. 

[Stops  digging.] 
I  quit  digging  right  now. 

Elder  Gravedigger. 
Me  too. 

Gabbai. 

[From  the  distance.] 
What's  the  trouble  ? 
*  Orthodox  Jews  do  not  smoke  on  the  Sabbath. 


The  Sinner  i6i 

Younger  Gravedigger. 
It  seems  to  me  that  my  spade  touched  a  human 
body. 

[The  crowd  stirs^  and  surrounds  the  grave] 

Gabbai. 
[Pulling  on  a  pair  of  brass  spectacles,  which 
he  takes  from  a  rear-pocket.] 
What  can  this  signify  ? 

[The  crowd  is  silent;  people  look  at  each  other 
in  fright  J  as  if  anticipating  something.  Sud- 
denly a  stream  of  water  gushes  out  of  the 
grave.  General  commotion.  An  impressive 
silence] 

First  Person. 

[In  terror] 
The  earth  refuses  to  receive  him  !  | 

Second  Person. 
Even  Hell  has  closed  its  doors  to  him  ! 

Third  Person. 
Good  God  in  Heaven,  how  awful  his  sins  must 
be  ! 

\rhe  crowd  shuns  the  dead  man,  leaving  him 
al&ne  with  the  woman  in  black.  She  kneels 
down  before  the  corpse,  hiding  her  face  in 
the  black  coverlet.    The  people  withdraw. 


i62  The  Sinner 

No  one  interferes  with  her.  There  is  a 
long  silence;  night  comes  on.  Here  and 
there,  from  the  crowd,  come  stray  sentences: 
^^What  will  come  of  this  ?  What  now  ? 

Gabbai. 
Send  for  the  Rabbi. 

The  Gravediggers. 
It's  getting  dark.     Have  lanterns  brought  from 
the  town. 

[Retreating  footsteps  are  heard,] 

First  Person. 
What's  to  be  done  ? 

Gabbai. 
My  advice  is  to  dig  a  grave  for  the  dead  man 
near  that  of  Reb  Jehuda. 

Elder  Gravedigger. 
What  !  Near  the  grave  of  Reb   Jehuda,  —  one 
of  the  chosen  Thirty-six  !* 

Gabbai. 
The  merits  of  Reb  Jehuda  will  procure  for  the 
corpse   its   reception   into    the   earth.     Near   his 

1  *  Jewish  tradition  has  it  that  the  world  is  supported  by  the 
piety  of  thirty-six  saints,  who  carefully  conceal  their 
sanctity  under  the  guise  of  some  humble  occupation. 


The  Sinner  163 

grave  no  water  will  gush  forth.  The  sinner  can 
escape  from  hell  only  with  a  saint's  aid.  The 
sinner  holds  tightly  to  the  saint,  and  through  the 
saint's  good  deeds  is  saved  from  Gehenna. 

Persons  in  the  Crowd. 
And  what  about  Reb  Jehuda's  honor  ? 

Gabbai. 
Reb  Jehuda   cared   little   enough  about  honor 
while  alive,  and  it's  of  even  less  moment  after 
death. 

Elder  Gravedigger. 
I  don't  care  to  dig  his  grave  near  Reb  Jehuda's. 

[Flings  down  his  spade.] 

Younger  Gravedigger. 
Coimt  me  out  of  it,  too. 

Gabbai. 

[Tightens  his  girdle.    Goes  over  to  a  low  stone 

which  is  hidden  behind  a  tree^  begins  to 

sway  lack  and  forth  as  he  speaks  with 

religious  fervor  \ 

To  Him  who  created  the  world  in  six  days  it  is 

known  that  not  to  offend  the  honor  of  Reb  Jehuda 

do  we  desire  to  bury  this  corpse  near  him.     We 

are  in  doubt  and  we  know  not  what  to  do.    We 


i64  The  Sinner 

wish  to  have  the  sinner  acquire  merit  from  lying 
near  the  saint. 

[He  takes  a  spade  and  commences  to  dig  a 
grave.    Silence.] 

First  Person. 
There  is  Reb  Jehuda's  stone,  on  which  for  forty 
years  he  lay,  a  hermit,  and  studied  the  Torah. 

Second  Person. 
The  stone  was  worn  out  in  the  middle,  from  the 
neck  of  him  who  lay  upon  it  for  forty  years. 

Third  Person. 
When  he  died  they  put  this  stone  over  his  grave 
as  a  moniunent. 

First  Person. 
How  did  this  corpse  ever  earn  the  honor  of  rest- 
ing by  the  side  of  Reb  Jehuda  ? 

Second  Person. 

[Sarcastically.] 
He  must  have  performed  one  good  deed  in  his 
whole  life,  and  this  is  his  righteous  reward! 

[On  the  road  afar  may  be  seen  lights  from  lan- 
terns. Gradually  there  may  be  distin- 
guished men  in  dark  coats,  women  in  shawls , 
young  men  carrying  lanterns.     They  enter 


The  Sinner  165 

the  graveyard,  and  question  one  another  in 
subdued  voices.  ^'What^s  the  matter  ?^\  .  . 
^^Whafs  the  trouble  V  .  .  .  Seeing  the  corpse 
and  the  woman  in  the  black  veil  they  are 
overcome  with  fright  and  withdraw  to  the 
groups  that  encircle  the  grave.  Silent  sus- 
pense,] 

Gabbai. 

[Suddenly  stops  digging.] 
Heavens  !    I   feel   that  my  spade   has   struck 
something  hard.    It  can't  dig  down  any  further. 

Persons  in  the  Crowd. 

[Greatly  excited.] 
Good  God  in  Heaven  ! 

Others  est  the  Crowd. 
What's  going  to  be  done  with  the  corpse  ? 

Voice, 
Better  wait  till  the  Rabbi  arrives. 

Second  Person. 
Let  the  Dayons  be  sent  for  ! 

Third  Person. 
A  terrible  misfortime  has  been  visited  upon  us 
all,  Father  in  Heaven  ! 


i66  The  Sinner 

Gabbai. 
Some  light  over  here  !   Let's  see  what's  in  the 
grave. 

Elder  Gravedigger. 
I  advise  you  not  to  look. 

Gabbai. 
^       [Clambers  up  out  of  the  grave^  takes  a  lantern 
and  returns  to  the  grave.    With  an  outcry.] 
There's  a  stone  here  ! 

Persons  in  the  Crowd. 
A  stone  ! 

First  Person. 
Reb  Jehuda's  stone  lies  flat  across  the  grave  and 
will  not  permit  the  corpse  to  be  buried  near  Reb 
Jehuda. 

Second  Person. 
The  earth  refuses  to  receive  him. 

Persons  in  the  Crowd. 
What's  to  be  done  with  the  body  ? 

First  Person. 
Silence  !  The  Rabbi  is  coming  ! 

\pn  the  road  may  he  seen  the  lights  of  large 
lanterns,  which  shine  upon  three  old  men 


The  Sinner  167 

with  white  beards  and  tall  fur  caps.  The 
one  in  the  middle,  who  is  the  oldest  of  the 
three  leans  with  one  hand  upon  a  staff,  with 
the  other  upon  the  Beadle,  The  latter  is 
carrying  a  large  lantern.  The  gate  opens; 
the  three  men  enter,  pass  by  the  corpse,  look 
in  astonishment  and  fright  at  the  woman, 
who  is  kneeling,  then  immediately  retre  t. 
They  approach  the  half-dug  grave  and  stand 
there  reluctantly,  as  if  in  a  dilemma.  Sub- 
dued whispering  in  the  crowd,  which  sur- 
rounds the  men.    Silence.] 

Rabbi. 
[After  consulting  with  the  Dayons,  turns  to  the 
crowd.] 
Friends,  we  have  come  to  the  decision  that  in 
order  that  this  corpse  may  be  placed  in  a  Jewish 
grave  each  one  of  us  must  surrender  to  the  dead 
man  one  of  our  good  deeds  forever.     For  my  part, 
I  give  him  twenty  pages'  reading  of  the  Commen- 
tary Beirochos,  from  the  Tahnud. 

First  Dayon. 
I  offer  him  the  observance  of  one  Sabbath. 

Second  Dayon. 
I  present  the  fasting  of  one  Day  of  Atonement. 


i68  The  Sinner 

First  Person. 
And  I,  a  chapter  of  the  Biblical  Commentaries. 

Second  Person. 
And  I,  a  week-day  morning  paper. 

Third  Person. 
And  you  can  have,  from  me,  a  day's  reading  of 
the  Psalms. 

Rabbi. 
Enough  !     [To  the  diggers.]     You  may  resume 
digging. 

[The  diggers  resume  digging,  and  their  spades 
are  heard  striking  against  a  stone.] 

Elder  Gravedigger. 
The  stone  simply  won't  budge. 

[Silence  again  overpowers  the  crowd;  the  Rabbi 
and  the  Dayons  consult  once  more.  An 
atmosphere  of  terror  pervades  the  place.  A 
quiet  sobbing  comes  from  the  woman  in 
black.] 

First  Dayon. 
Can  it  be  that  the  corpse  has  desecrated  the 
honor  of  the  saints  who  dwell  in  the  glory  of  God's 
splendor  ? 

[Silence.] 


The  Sinner  169 

Rabbi. 
[Turning  to  the  DayonSj  with  a  hoarsCy  stacatto 
voice.] 
Ye  who  dwell  in  the  glory  of  God's  splendor, 
perhaps  this  corpse,  during  its  life,  has  desecrated 
your  honor.    In  its  name,  and  in  the  name  of  all 
Israel,  I  beg  forgiveness.     Take  him  with  ye.    And 
thou,  Reb  Jehuda,  who  wert  humble  in  thy  great 
renown  during  Kfe,  surely  wilt  thou  not  be  proud 
in  death.    Let  the  good  entreat  for  the  evil,  and 
sujffer  this  corpse  to  repose  near  thee. 

[Impressive  silence.  Restrained  sobbing  is 
heard  from  the  woman  in  black.] 

Gabbai. 

[To  the  diggers.] 
Go  down  and  see  if  you  can  dig  now. 

[The  gravediggers  take  a  lantern  into  the  grave 
and  start  digging  once  more.  There  is 
heard  the  ring  of  iron  against  stone.] 

Elder  Gravedigger. 
The    stone    refuses    to    budge.     Wherever    the 
spade  goes  it  strikes  the  stone. 

[The  Rabbi  and  the  Dayons  hold  another  con- 
sultation, in  subdued  tones.  There  is  a, 
murmuring  in  the  crowd,  then  a  silent 
expectancy.] 


I70  The  Sinner 

Rabbi. 

[Turning  to  the  earth.] 
Earth,  mother  of  all,  out  of  whom  cometh  all 
and  to  whom  all  returneth  —  if  this  corpse,  while 
living,  sinned  against  thee,  I  ask  thee  forgiveness 
in  his  name  and  in  the  name  of  all  Israel.  For  out 
of  dust  cometh  man,  and  to  dust  returneth. 

[Deep  silence.  The  diggers  resume  their  work, 
and  soon  the  ring  of  the  iron  spades  upon  the 
stone  is  heard  again.] 

Elder  Gravedigger. 
The  stone  doesn't  budge. 

[Silent  horror  grips  the  crowd.  The  suppressed 
sobbing  of  the  woman  in  black  continues.] 

First  Dayon. 

[After  a  long  pause.] 
Can  it  be  that  the  corpse  was  guilty  of  blas- 
phemy ? 

Second  Dayon. 
Maybe  it  doesn't  belong  to  this  cemetery  ? 

Rabbi. 

[After  a  short  deliberation.] 
Where  is  the  caretaker  of  the  grounds  ? 

Elder  Gravedigger. 
What  do  you  wish  ? 


The  Sinner  171 

Rabbi. 
Have  some  wood  brought;  build  a  fire  in  the 
graveyard.  Place  in  the  fire  seven  bricks.  [To 
the  crowd.]  If  the  bricks  crack,  that  will  signify 
that  his  Judaism  has  cracked  likewise  ...  in  that 
case  his  corpse  does  not  belong  to  this  graveyard, 
and  the  earth  will  not  take  him  in. 

[Wood  is  brought,  and  a  fire  is  made,  near  the 
dead  body.  Seven  bricks  are  placed  in  the 
fire,  which  fiames  up  and  illumines  the  sur- 
rounding crowd.  Another  fiash  reveals  the 
corpse  and  the  woman  in  black  kneeling 
beside  it,  A  long  pause  of  suspense. 
Suddenly  the  crack  of  a  splitting  brick  is 
heard.] 

Persons  in  the  Crowd. 
A  brick  has  cracked  ! 

Rabbi. 
Only  one. 

[Another  crack  is  heard.] 

Persons  in  the  Crowd. 
Another  ! 

Rabbi. 
That  makes  only  two. 

[The  remaining  bricks,  with  the  exception  of 
one,  crack  in  turn,  and  fall  out  of  the  fiames. 


172  The  Sinner 

Out  of  the  awed  silence  of  the  crowd  now  and 
then  breaks  forth  from  a  frightened  onlooker: 
^^ God  in  Heaven  r  .  ,  .  ^^  Almighty  Father ^ 

Persons  in  the  Crowd. 
Good  God  above  !   What  can  the  corpse  have 
been  guilty  of  ? 

Rabbi. 
One  brick  still  remains  whole. 

Persons  in  the  Crowd. 

And  that  one's  cracking  now  ! 

[Pause.] 

Second  Person 
It's  cracking  in  every  direction.    It'll  spKt  in 
a  moment. 

Persons  in  the  Crowd. 

[Terror-stricken] 
This  very  second  !  Now  !  Now  ! 

Rabbi. 
It  hasn't  spHt  yet. 

[Silence] 

First  Person. 
The  pieces  of  the  brick  hold  together  as  if  the 
fire  fused  them. 


The  Sinner  173 

First  Dayon. 
It  is  not  so  easy  for  a  Jewish  soul  to  depart  from  I 
the  path  of  Judaism.  ^ 

Second  Dayon. 
He   surely   must   have   endured   much   sorrow 
before  he  came  to  that  point. 

Rabbi. 
Even  as  the  brick  in  the  flames,  so  did  his  soul 
bum  in  the  flames  of  life.  [The  fire  dies  out  grad- 
ually; only  embers  remain.  The  brick  remains 
whole.  The  crowd  gathers  about,  in  awed  silence. 
The  Rabbi  and  the  Dayons  approach  the  fire  and 
examine  the  stone.  The  Rabbi  then  turns  to  the 
open  grave  and  speaks  in  quiet,  solemn  voice.]  Earth, 
you  must  receive  him.  For  he  has,  in  spite  of 
everything,  remained  a  Jew,  and  belongs  in  this 
cemetery.  And  ye  other  graves,  whether  ye  so 
will  it  or  not,  must  grant  him  a  place  among  ye. 


Dig. 


Gabbai. 

[To  the  diggers.] 

[The  diggers  commence  digging  again.] 


Elder  Gravedigger. 
The  stone  crumbles  at  the  touch  of  my  spade. 


174  The  Sinner 

Rabbi. 

[To  the  Beadle.] 
Go  over  to  the  corpse  and  say  to  it:  You  are  not 
this  woman's  husband  and  she  is  not  your  wife. 

The  Beadle. 
[Tightens  his  girdle,  approaches  the  corpse 
and  says:] 
You  are  not  this  woman's  husband.     She  is  not 
your  wife. 

[The  Gabbai  and  a  man  from  the  crowd  remove 
the  corpse  from  the  woman,  who  remains 
kneeling  at  the  spot.  The  body  is  taken  from 
its  litter  and  it  is  lowered,  with  its  black 
shroud,  into  the  grave.  The  Gabbai  breaks 
an  earthen  pot,  placing  the  shards  upon  the 
eyes  and  the  mouth  of  the  corpse.] 

Gabbai. 

[To  the  corpse] 
I  seal  the  eyes  which  have  gazed  upon  evil,  and 
the  mouth  which  has  uttered  it. 

[The  grave  is  filled  in.  One  by  one  the  crowd 
leaves,  some  taking  lanterns  along.  Only 
the  elder  gravedigger  and  the  woman  in 
black  remain.  The  former,  by  the  light  of 
his  lantern  and  the  glow  of  the  fire^s  dying 
embers,  nails  a  board  above  the  newly  made 
grave.    Beyond  the  fence,  on  the  dark  road, 


The  Sinner  175 

may  be  seen  the  figures  of  the  retreating 
crowds  and  the  lantern  lights  which  gradually 
grow  dimmer. 

Elder  Gravedigger. 

[Having  fulfilled  his  duty,  stands  for  a  moment 
over  the  grave,  addressing  it] 
May  thy  sinful  soul  rest  in  peace 

{Takes  his  lantern  and  leaves.  The  scene  is 
left  in  darkness,  save  for  the  dying  embers 
of  the  fire.  By  their  pale  light  the  woman 
in  black  may  be  seen  approaching  the  grave 
as  if  treading  upon  hallowed  ground.  She 
throws  her  black  veil  upon  the  grave.  From 
afar  are  discerned  the  last  glimmerings  of 
the  lanterns.} 


SLOW  CURTAIN 


PEREZ   HIRSCHBEIN 


Perez  Hirschbein  is  a  young  man  of  some 
thirty-five  years.  Born  the  son  of  a  poor  miller 
in  a  small  Russian  town  he  became  known  at 
twenty-five  as  a  writer  of  drama  in  Hebrew,  later 
in  Yiddish. 

He  has  been  much  influenced  by  the  French 
s3anbolists  and  mystics,  as  is  attested  by  the 
dialogue  of  his  plays  and  the  beauty  of  his  prose- 
poems.  In  fact,  some  of  his  one-act  plays  incline 
so  strongly  to  the  mystic  that  the  very  element 
which  adds  to  them  perhaps,  as  poetry,  injures 
them  as  actable  drama.  In  these  plays  Hirschbein 
is  first  of  all  the  prose-poet,  and  dramatist  in  a 
secondary  sense  only. 

In  such  a  drama  as  ^^Einsame  Welten"  [Solitary 
Worlds]  during  the  short  course  of  the  play  there  is 
little,  if  any,  dialogue.  The  characters  speak  to 
us  by  speaking  only  to  themselves.  One  curses 
his  fate  in  a  withering  invective  that  pales  into 
mere  scolding  when  translated;  another  has  gone 
mad  over  Talmudical  disputation,  and  repeats 
his  fixed  idea  with  a  mechanical  simplicity  that 
overwhelms;  a  yoimg  child  draws  designs  upon  the 
floor  and  talks  about  the  music  upstairs  as  if  it 

177 


178  Perez  Hirschbein 

were  (as  indeed  it  is)  in  another  world,  and  so  on. 
Here  is  a  cellar  full  of  people,  yet  each  is  a  world 
unto  himself.  Or  again,  examine  the  beautiful 
piece  which  the  author,  perhaps  feeling  its  essen- 
tially non-dramatic  qualities,  has  entitled  an  idyll, 
"BeheUy  The  story  of  the  play  is  touching:  the 
superstitious  penance  which  a  mother  takes  upon 
herself  for  her  daughter's  welfare.  Yet  its  dram- 
atic vision,  so  to  speak,  is  too  weak  to  endure  the 
glare  of  the  footlights.  So,  too,  the  charming 
playlet  called  ^^The  Stormy^  with  its  illustrative 
sub-title:  Once  Upon  A  Time  the  Jews  Reveled. 

In  such  a  play,  however,  as  "Zw  Der  Finster" 
[In  The  Dark],  by  which  Hirschbein  is  represented 
in  this  volume,  the  author  succeeds  admirably  in 
fusing  plot,  poetry  and  symbolism  into  a  dramatic 
unity  where  the  tragedy  of  poverty  and  shattered 
illusions  is  depicted  with  a  poignancy  and  power 
that  entitle  this  one-act  play  to  a  place  among  the 
best  of  its  genre  in  any  tongue. 


IN   THE   DARK 

A  Dramatic  Study  in  One  Act 

By  PEREZ  HIRSCHBEIN 


PERSONS. 

Faive,  a  man  who  performs  odd  jobs  on  the  street, 
Peshke,  his  daughter. 
Fayge,  blind  mother  of  Faive, 
Baynish,  an  old  porter. 
Abrajvi,  a  young  chimney-sweep. 


i8o 


IN   THE    DARK 


Scene:  A  winter  evening.  Faive's  home.  Two 
long  and  narrow  rooms  in  a  deep  cellar.  As  the 
stage  grows  gradually  lighter  there  may  he  seen,  in 
the  room  of  the  foreground  at  the  right,  an  oven.  On 
the  floor,  black  pots  and  similar  utensils.  To  the 
left,  windows  placed  deep  in  the  walls.  Broken- 
down  furnishings.  In  the  background,  the  other 
room.  Black  pipes  lead  from^  a  small  iron  stove  to 
the  chimney  in  the  room  of  the  foreground. 

The  stage  is  dark.  For  a  while  it  remains  empty. 
From  the  rear  room  are  heard  Fayge's  footsteps, 
accompanied  by  groans  and  sighs. 

Fayge. 

[Gropes  around.] 
She's  out,  it  seems.  I  just  dozed  off  a  bit,  and 
out  she  skipped  .  .  .  The  oven's  cold.  The  fire 
died  out  before  it  had  a  chance  to  warm  up  .  .  . 
And  here  it  is  freezing  again  .  .  .  Hu,  hu  .  .  . 
Dark  .  .  .  Doesn't  seem  to  be  anything  burning. 
[Feels  her  way  about.]  Peshke  !  Eh  ?  .  .  .  She's 
out.  Could  she  have  left  the  door  open  ?  It's 
cold  .  .  .  No,  the  door's  closed.  What  a  Hfe  ! 
What  a  life  !  Hu,  hu  .  .  .  Well,  there's  some  of  me 
i8i 


i82  In  the  Dark 

left  yet,  at  least.  [The  door  opens,  and  someone 
enters]  Who  is  that  ?  Eh  ?  Who  is  it  ?  .  .  . 
Baynish  ? 

Baynish. 
Good  evening.    It's  I. 

Fayge. 
Baynish  ? 

Baynish. 
Yes,  Baynish  .  .  .  Why  is  it  dark  here  ? 

Fayge. 
What  do  I  need  light  for  ?    I'm  looking  for 
Peshke.    She  was  here  just  a  moment  ago.  I  dozed 
off  ...  Is  it  very  dark  here  ? 

Baynish. 
Very.    It's  cold  in  your  house.    I  thought  I 
could  warm  up  here  a  little. 

Fayge. 
It's  terrible  cold.    What  do  you  say  ? 

Baynish. 
Something  awful.    Simply  imbearable. 

Fayge. 
Did  you  earn  anything  ? 


In  the  Dark  183 

Baynish. 
I    didn't    even    untie    my    rope  ...  It's    cold. 
Didn't  you  make  any  fire  today  ? 

FAYGE. 

Certainly.    What  a  question  ! 

Baynish. 

With  sticks,  eh  ? 

Fayge. 
With  big  logs.    And  I  sawed  them  with  my  own 
hands. 

Baynish. 

It's  awful  cold. 

Fayge. 
Isn't  it  too  dark  for  you  ? 

Baynish. 
Can't  see  a  thing. 

Fayge. 
There  ought  to  be  a  little  lamp  on  the  table  over 
there. 

[Both  go  into  the  hack  room.] 

Baynish. 
Here  it  is.    Now  we  need  some  matches. 


i84  In  the  Dark 

Fayge. 
Look  on  the  mantel. 

Baynish. 
By  the  chimney  ? 

Fayge. 
Sometimes  they're  there  .  .  .  She  simply  can't 
stay  in  the  house.     Maybe  she's  sleeping  some- 
where in  here.    Look  around,  please,  and  see  if 
you  can  spy  her. 

Baynish. 
Who? 

Fayge. 
Peshke.    She  stays  home.  Walks  around  bare- 
foot. 

Baynish. 
Can't  see  anyone.    It's  dark  .  .  .  Like  a  dungeon. 

Fayge. 
Then  I  must  have  slept  for  a  long  time.  It's  a 
habit  with  me  these  days.  My  eyelids  just  drop 
at  times.  When  I  could  see,  the  least  bit  of  noise 
would  wake  me  right  away  .  .  .  And  now,  God  be 
praised,  blindness  on  top  of  my  other  cares.  You 
didn't  find  her  ? 


In  the  Dark  185 

Baynish. 
I  don't  know  where  to  look  .  .  .  What  a  terrible 
cold  day  it's  been.    When  you  don't  earn  a  cent 
it's  bitter  indeed. 

Fayge. 
She's  out,  all  right.    Simply  can't  stay  inside. 
Somebody  was  here  during  the  day.    They  whis- 
pered into  each  other's  ears.     Could  it  have  been 
Abram  ?  She  wouldn't  tell  me. 

Baynish. 
I'd  make  her  tell  me,  all  right  !   What's  Faive 
doing  about  it  ?  And  the  rope  ?  Why  do  you  spare 
the  rope  ? 

Fayge. 
It's  painful  to  twist  a  rope  into  young  skin. 
Her  body's  too  delicate  for  the  rope.  She  won't 
do  anything.  She  doesn't  want  to  put  the  yoke 
around  her  neck.  Am  I  to  hang  it  on  her  ?  I 
can't  see  what's  going  on  in  the  world.  It's  soon 
thirty  years.  The  street  must  look  altogether 
different  now  .  . . 

Baynish. 
But  how  can  a  girl  leave  her  grandmother  in  the 
dark  ?    Faive  must  know  of  this.    I'll  lend  him 
my  rope. 


i86  In  the  Dark 

Fayge. 
He  has  his  own  rope  .  .  .  Hu,  hu  .  .  .  And  I  Kve 

on  thus  in  the  dark.  Blind,  yet  hankering  for 
warmth.  Hu,  hu  .  .  .  To  beat  grown-up  children 
is  the  same  as  beating  yourself  ...  I  knew  a  mother 
who  began  beating  her  children  even  before  their 
birth  .  .  .  She  would  strike  herself  with  her  fists 
in  the  stomach.  Couldn't  stand  the  bitter  life 
within  her  .  .  .  Her  husband  nagged  her,  and  she 
didn't  know  upon  whom  to  vent  her  wrath.  She 
was  beside  herself  with  rage  .  .  .  What  is  the  child 
to  blame  ?  Peshke  is  a  mere  girl.  She  wants  to 
have  a  good  time. 

Baynish. 
And  for  that,  maybe  I  wouldn't  give  it  to  her 
with  the  rope  ! 

Fayge. 
And  who  ever  whipped  Faive  ?  Such  a  mis- 
chief, too,  —  a  born  mischief  I  I  had  a  hard  time 
bearing  him.  He  wanted  to  spring  out  of  my 
bowels  before  the  time.  Stood  on  his  head  and 
kicked  at  my  heart  with  his  feet .  .  .  Very  hard 
time  bearing  him  !  He  was  born  —  and  his  yoke 
came  with  him.  The  yoke,  too,  I  bore  within  me. 
[The  other  room  becomes  light,  of  a  sudden.] 

Peshke. 
[Enters,  with  a  burning  match  in  her  hand.] 


In  the  Dark  187 

Baynish. 
Ah  !  Here  she  is  !  I  didn't  know  it. 

Peshke. 
Show  me  that  rope  of  yours,  Baynish.  Into 
how  many  knots  is  it  twisted  ?  [The  match  goes 
out.]  So  you'd  lend  your  rope  to  papa,  would 
you  ?  Why,  you  can't  even  untie  it  from  your 
neck  ! 

Fayge. 
I  thought  you  were  out,  somewhere.    Light  up, 
my  child. 

Peshke. 
Where  could  I  go,  barefoot,  in  a  cold  spell  like 
this? 

Baynish. 
She  must  have  hid  under  the  table  ...  I  searched 
everywhere.     Ha,  ha  !    She  heard  every  word  we 
said.    Well,  what  she  heard  was  all  true.    Her 
father  is  too  easy  with  her. 

Peshke. 
Yes,  too  easy.    Too  easy. 

Baynish. 
Then  he's  a  fool.     Children  must  be  whipped. 
You've  got  to  give  it  to  them  on  their  bare  body  ! 


i88  In  the  Dark 

Peshke. 
You^re  in  a  jolly  mood,  Baynish,  —  in  a  jolly 
mood. 

Baynish. 
There,   there.    I  was  fooling.    Really,   I  was 
only  joking. 

Fayge. 
You  weren't  joking  at  all,  Baynish.    Sometimes 
we  say  things  and  then  we  ourselves  feel  that 
they're  foolish. 

Baynish. 

A  child  shouldn't  be  a  mill-stone  around  her 
father's  neck.  And  if  she  is,  the  father  ought  to 
beat  her. 

Peshke. 
Do  you  think  I  don't  know  that  you  spoke  with 
my  father  ?  Baynish  imagines  that  with  his  ropes 
he'll  help  my  father  bind  me. 

Fayge. 
Better  light  a  candle. 

Peshke. 
I'd  just  as  soon  sit  in  the  dark.     [Lights  a  match.] 
If  you  had  children,  you'd  talk  differently.     Here 


In  the  Dark  189 

he  IS  talking  about  bringing  up  children,  and  he 
doesn't  know  what  a  child  is  ! 


Baynish. 

I'd  be  merciless.  For  lighting  matches  without 
need  I'd  break  off  their  fingers  for  them  .  .  .  I'm 
joking,  little  fool. 

Peshke. 
It's  all  the  same  to  me  whether  you're  joking  or 
not.  My  clothes  on  the  wall  have  rotted  from  the 
mould.  How  much  longer  will  I  have  to  be  here  ? 
Till  my  sides  commence  to  rot  ?  I  don't  want  to 
rot  alive  —  what's  more,  I  won't  ! 

[Lights  another  match.] 

Fayge. 
Don't  waste  the  matches.  Don't.  Yoimg  folks 
have  no  sense.  You  need  wisdom.  Foolish  child. 
To  be  bom  is  to  be  lost .  .  .  Didn't  your  mother 
give  birth  to  you  in  a  cellar  ?  Much  damper  than 
this  place  .  .  .  The  walls  were  all  mouldy,  and 
near  the  bed  they  were  hung  over  with  sacks. 
The  sacks  got  rotten.  And  you  laughed,  — 
kicked  out  your  feet  and  laughed.  Some  children 
begin  to  laugh  very  early,  in  the  second  week, 
before  the  mother  is  out  of  bed.  But  once  they 
begin  to  talk,  they  laugh  no  more.    They  cry. 


190  In  the  Dark 

Peshke. 
I'm  not  going  to  cry  anymore,  now.    No  more. 

Baynish. 
Oh,  you'll  cry  yet.     You'll  bury  your  head  in 
your  pillow  and  cry  .  .  .  It's  warmer  over  at  my 
house.     Good  night.    [Goes  out.    Silence,] 

Peshke. 
He  doesn't  even  know  how  to  crack  a  joke. 
He  talks  to  papa  against  me. 

Fayge. 
Faive  isn't  so  bad  these  days.    Troubles,  my 
child,  make  people  unkind.     You  get  angry  at 
yourself,  and  curse  yourself.     Isn't  a  child  part 
of  a  parent's  own  flesh  ? 

Peshke. 
But  pa  can't  even  stand  to  see  me  raise  my  head. 

Fayge. 
His  own  head,  child,  is  buried  ten  feet  under- 
ground. If  he  ever  laughs,  I  haven't  heard  it. 
Never.  Troubles  gnaw  at  him.  It's  a  grave  we 
live  in.  I  may  not  see;  darkness  is  everywhere 
around  me.  What  difference  does  it  make  where 
I  am  ?  Above,  or  below  ?  No  difference,  it  seems. 
Not  so.     With  my  blind  eyes  I  can  see  that  I'm 


In  the  Dark  191 

lying  in  a  tomb.  If  I  can't  get  up,  what  of  it  ? 
Hu,  hu  .  .  .  You're  right,  my  child,  you're  right .  .  . 
[Her  voice  falters.]  Come  to  me,  my  child.  With 
my  blind  eyes  I  see  that  you  are  right.  My  hands 
shall  give  you  protection.  Your  father  won't 
touch  you.    I  won't  let  him  hit  you.    I'll  tell  him. 

Peshke. 
What  can  you  have  to  tell  him  ?   I  don't  know 
whether  he  beats  me  from  love  or  suffering. 

Fayge. 
I'll  tell  him,  my  child,  that  a  grown-up  girl,  — 
a  grown-up  girl  should  be  spared.  That  she  should 
be  respected.  He  can't  bear  to  see  you  go  around 
idle,  my  darling.  When  a  man's  drowning,  even 
a  straw  is  too  heavy  for  him  to  support  .  .  .  Where 
are  you,  my  child  ? 

Peshke. 
Here  I  am. 

[She  lights  a  match.] 

Fayge. 
When  you  strike  a  light  I  seem  to  see  the  whole 
cellar. 

Peshke. 
No,   you   don't   see   it,   grandma,   you   don't. 
Neither  of  us  does. 

[It  becomes  again  dark.] 


192  In  the  Dark 

Fayge. 
But  you  see  that  I  notice  it's  become  dark  again. 

Peshke. 
I'll  make  it  light  again  for  you. 

[Strikes  another  match.] 

Fayge. 
Too  bad.  A  pity  to  use  up  the  matches.  Cer- 
tainly I  see.  I  see  everything.  I  see  even  you. 
[After  a  pause.]  The  place  is  empty.  There  ought 
to  be  some  warm  water,  at  least.  He'll  be  frozen 
when  he  comes  in  from  the  street. 

Peshke. 
Warm  water  !  Warm  water  !  What  will  be  the 
good  of  it  ?  Come  what  may.  I  couldn't  stand  it, 
granny,  I  couldn't  stand  it  any  longer.  Rather 
die  of  hunger  than  to  rot  ahve.  Oh,  granny, 
granny  ! 

[Throws  herself  upon  Fayge^s  neck.] 

Fayge. 
It's  so  long  since  you  worked  in  the  factory,  yet 
you  still  smell  tobacco. 

Peshke. 
The  odor  will  stick  to  me  as  long  as  I  live. 
[Silence,     Then,  suddenly,  in  a  louder  voice,  roused.] 


In  the  Dark 


193 


Tell  me,  grandma,  why  should  a  young  girl  like  me 
be  so  sad  ?  I'm  lonesome,  I  feel  oppressed  !  Shall 
I  have  to  die  of  lonesomeness  ?  If  pa  should  come 
home  and  beat  me  black  and  blue  with  his  rope, 
perhaps  I'd  feel  better. 

Fayge. 
My  child,  you're  seventeen  years  old,  and  I'm 
seventy.  It's  hard  to  close  one's  eyes  for  good  .  .  . 
But  once  they're  closed,  it's  as  if  a  stone  drops 
from  the  heart.  You  suffer  in  loneliness,  and  I 
grope  about  in  the  dark. 

Peshke. 
Do  you  think,  grandma,  that  I'm  too  lazy  to 
work  ?    No,  granny,  I'm  not  !    I'd  do  anything 
in  the  world  to  make  things  easier. 

[Silence.] 
Fayge. 
Find  some  way,  my  child,  to  get  away  from 
here  ...  I  made  a  mistake  before.  It  seemed  to 
me  secret  conversation,  whispering  was  going  on 
.  .  .  Maybe  it  was  Abram  .  .  .  Perhaps  he'll  take 
you  out  of  here  ...  I  talked  it  over  with  Baynish. 
I  shouldn't  have  done  so  .  .  . 

Peshke. 
Ah,  grandma,  if  you  but  knew  how  my  heart 
aches.    As  if  iron  teeth  gnawed  at  it.    My  whole 


194  In  the  Dark 

body  grows  hot  and  cold  by  turns  .  .  .  And  at 
times,  it's  even  darker  in  my  eyes  than  in  yours. 
Mamma  used  to  tear  out  my  hair.  I  was  small 
then  and  I  didn't  understand.  I  just  cried,  and 
couldn't  understand.  And  she  would  tear  out  my 
hair.  Tell  me,  did  it  make  her  feel  better  to  give 
me  pain  ? 

Fayge. 
She  tore  out  her  own  heart.  I  know,  my  darling, 
how  much  she  loved  you.  But  it  was  her  troubles. 
Your  mamma  died  from  hunger.  She  would  feed 
you  with  potatoes,  and  herself  would  swallow 
saliva  .  .  .  Would  swallow  her  tears  .  .  .  [Silence.] 
Your  pa  will  soon  come  home.  He'll  be  hungry, 
and  you've  prepared  no  food  for  him.  That'll 
make  him  angry  ...  A  mother  can  bear  every- 
thing, a  father  —  nothing.  A  mother  can  sacri- 
fice herself  before  her  time, —  can  bury  herself 
alive,  for  her  child.  When  you  had  the  pox  and 
the  measles,  and  your  throat  became  affected,  — 
Heaven  keep  us  from  evil  —  you  didn't  hear  your 
mother  weeping  over  you.  But  I,  my  child, 
heard  her .  .  .  With  my  blind  eyes  I  heard  her,  1 
and  a  fire  consumed  me.  My  tears  burned,  for  a ' 
blind  person  can't  weep.  Impossible.  Wasn't 
your  mother  my  daughter-in-law?  .  .  .  She  was 
like  a  dying  candle,  and  with  my  blind  eyes  I  saw  1 
how  she  flickered  .  .  .  Hu,  it's  cold  .  .  .  You  say  ' 


In  the  Dark  19s 

you're  lonely  ?  Why  shouldn't  you  be  ?  I  can't 
see  . .  .  I'm  blind.  If  my  eyes  were  to  open,  I'd 
sob  like  a  child.  I'd  look  at  your  father  and 
wouldn't  know  him.  His  face  must  have  changed. 
When  a  man  beats  his  grown-up  child,  his  face 
must  be  black  with  suffering  .  .  .When a  man  pulls 
his  only  child  by  the  hair  .  .  .  my  darling,  it's 
suffering  that  makes  him  do  it. 

[Silence.] 

Peshke. 
I  worked  in  the  factory  and  just  rotted  away  in 
the  fold  atmosphere.  And  all  around  me  sat 
yellow  and  green  faces.  Not  a  word  did  they  say 
.  .  .  Just  silence  and  decay  .  .  .  And  I,  too,  kept 
silent.  But  in  my  heart  something  tugged,  some- 
thing was  breaking.  Terror  came  over  me  .  .  . 
Granny  !  Loneliness  overpowered  me.  It  became 
awful  !  When  a  candle  dies  out  and  melts  away  .  .  . 
And  when  human  beings  melt  away  and  die  out, 
bend  and  collapse  —  it's  frightful  .  .  .  Tell  me, 
grandma,  am  I  wrong  if  I  run  from  fire  lest  I  should 
melt  away  like  a  candle  ? .  .  .  When  I  see  a  face 
turning  yellow  like  a  leaf  in  autunrn,  I'm  afraid  .  .  . 
I  feel  that  I  could  die  ...  It  seems  that  of  a  sudden 
my  face  has  become  all  wrinkled  .  .  .  And  my  eyes 
.  .  .  Oh,  granny,  I'm  afraid  to  say  all  that  I  think 
.  .  .  And  here  at  home  it's  even  worse  .  .  .  Tell  me, 
grandma.    As  you  sit  here  in  the  cellar,  don't  you 


196  In  the  Dark 

sometimes  feel  that  the  walls  are  weighing  down 
upon  your  head,  —  weighing  down  and  crushing 
your  very  bone  and  marrow  together  ? 

Fayge. 

[Kisses  Peshke.] 
Youth  !  Youth  !  How  sensitive  it  is  to  pain  ! 
When  I  was  young,  my  darling,  about  your  age, 
and  could  still  see,  everything  affected  me.  It 
hurt.  Merciless  agony  .  .  .  They  broke  my  limbs, 
while  I  bit  my  lips  till  the  blood  came  —  bit  them 
from  suffering  and  didn't  utter  a  sound.  I  had 
more  strength  in  those  days,  more  power  to  suffer 
in  silence .  .  .  Children  of  today  haven't  the 
strength  to  do  that .  .  .  Hu,  hu.  It's  so  cold  ! 
.  .  .  Suffering,  —  nothing  but  suffering.  And  no^ 
strength  to  bear  it . .  . 

[Silence.] 

Abram. 

[Enters.] 
Pitch  dark  in  here.     Anybody  'roimd  ? 

Peshke. 
Come  here,  Abie  ! 

Fayge. 
We  got  a-talking,  and  forgot  all  about  the  fire. 


In  the  Dark  197 

Abram. 
You  can't  see  how  sooty  my  face  is  in  the  dark. 

Peshke. 
Is  it  very  cold  outside  ? 

Abram. 
Terrible.    Working  way  up  around  the  chim- 
neys it's  still  colder.    The  wind  blows  from  every 
direction. 

Peshke. 
Sometimes  you  can  fall  down  from  up  there,  too. 
A  sudden  gust  of  wind  could  push  you  over. 

Fayge. 
People  meet  their  death  more  often  in  the  streets. 

Abram. 
If  feels  great  to  balance  yourself  on  the  top  of  a 
roof  and  look  down  into  the  street,  and  see  the 
people  bustling.  They  squirm  about  here  and 
there  and  run  just  as  if  someone  were  driving  them 
with  a  long  whip. 

Peshke. 
Here,  light  the  lamp.    It's  there  on  the  table. 
My  feet  are  cold.    I'm  barefoot. 
I  [Abram  lights  a  small  lamp  on  the  table.  The 

cellar  is  peopled  with  shadows.] 


198  In  the  Dark 

Fayge. 
Is  it  light  already  ? 

Abram. 
Why  are  you  both  cuddled  up  so  close  together  ? 


Peshke, 
[Releases  herself  from  Fayge.    Her  face  is 
pale,  without  a  trace  of  gladness] 
We  were  keeping  each   other  warm  .  .  .  How 
black  you  are  ! .  .  .  Wash  your  face  .  .  . 

[She  clasps  his  hand.] 

Abram. 
[Looks  into  her  eyes  for  a  long  while.] 
I'll  wash  up  .  .  . 

[Washes  himself.] 

Fayge. 
Better  make  the  fire,  Peshke.    He  may  bring 
something  from  the  street  that  will  need  cooking. 

Abram. 
There  !  Is  my  face  clean  now  ? 

Peshke. 
You're  still  covered  with  soot. 

[She  hugs  his  neck.    Pause.] 


In  the  Dark  199 

Fayge. 
Are  you  starting  the  fire  ? 

Peshke. 
[First  whispers  something  into  Ahram^s  ear, 
then,  looking  at  her  grandmother,  says  aloud.] 
You  say  it's  very  cold  outside  ? 

Abram. 
Very  cold  and  windy. 

Fayge. 
Warm  up  something  to  eat.    Your  father'll  soon 
be  here.    Don't  give  him  any  cause  for  anger. 

Peshke. 
[Whispers  to  Abram,    He  trembles.    She  re- 
leases herself  and  stands  distraught.] 
An  empty  house.    An  empty  house  .  .  . 

Abram. 
[Goes  over  to  Peshke  and  takes  her  hand.] 

Fayge. 
Has  Abram  left  already  ? 

Abram. 
No,  I'm  here  yet. 

[Whispers  to  Peshke.] 


200  In  the  Dark 

Peshke. 
[Shakes  ^'no'^  with  her  head.    Then  aloud  to 
Fayge.] 
They  melted  away  just  like  candles  in  front  of 
a  flame,   and  dwindled  from  day  to  day  ...  I 
didn't  want  to  die  before  my  time.    My  youth 
cried  for  life,  my  heart  dreamed  of  blooming  .  .  . 
And  I  awoke  from  my  dream  and  saw  my  clothes 
hanging  rotten  on  the  wall. 

[She  hides  her  head  in  Abram^s  embrace ^  her 
body  convulsing  with  sobs.] 

Fayge. 
Children,  Faive  will  be  here  any  moment. 

Peshke. 
Rather  than  realize  too  late  what's  going  on, 
it's  far  better  to  — 

Fayge. 

[Interrupts  her.] 
Don't  curse  yourself,  my  darling.    You're  still 
young.    As  for  me,  there's  nothing  left  but  sorrow 
.  .  .  I'm  afraid  Faive  will  come. 

Peshke. 
Let  him  come.    Let  him  step  all  over  me  ! 


I 


In  the  Dark 


20I 


Abeam. 
Nobody  under  the  sun  should  let  another  step 
all  over  him.    I'd  resist  my  own  father  in  such  a 
case  ! 

Peshke. 

[Draws  him  close  to  her,  and  kisses  him  softly.] 

No  .  .  .  No  .  .  .  You're     wrong.    My     mother 

abandoned  me  .  .  .  abandoned  me  .  .  .  She  ought 

this  very  moment  to  rise  up  from  her  grave  with 

the  shards  on  her  eyes,  and  not  leave  me  behind, 

alone.     She  didn't  want  to  quarrel  with  father  .  .  . 

[Weeps.    They  remain  in   embrace.] 

Abram. 

[Wipes  his  eyes.] 

Fayge. 
Don't  cry.  Don't  cry.  People  who  can  see  the 
light  shouldn't  cry  .  .  .  I've  seen  mothers  whose 
cheeks  became  yellow  because  they  cried  too  much 
in  their  young  days.  Spots  were  left .  .  .  Life- 
long spots.  . . 

Peshke. 
No  yellow  spots  will  stain  my  cheeks,  granny. 

Fayge. 
Abie,  you  support  your  mother.    Your  mother 
loves  you.    When  you  have  a  mother  to  love  you, 


202 


In  the  Dark 


that's  enough  for  anyone.  .  .  I'ts  enough  to  rest 
one's  head  in  a  mother's  bosom.  It  makes  it 
easier  for  both.  Even  in  the  grave  mothers  suffer. 
No  rest  is  theirs  .  .  .  Their  woe  is  imending  .  .  . 

Peshke. 
[Kisses  Ahranij  puts  her  arms  around  his 
neck.     They  stand  for  a  time  in  embrace. 
Silence.    Peshke  then  signals  for  Air  am 
to  leave.     Then  aloud.] 

Father  will  soon  come. 

[She  goes  to  the  stove.    Looks  at  Ahram  with 
suffering  on  her  features.] 

Fayge. 

Who  is  that  crying  in  the  stillness  ?  Who  is  it  ?  > 

J 

Abram. 
[Controls  himself  j  nods  to  Peshke.] 
Good  evening.    I  may  step  in  again  tonight. 
[Remains  for  a  while  at  the  door.] 

Fayge. 
Good  luck  to  you,  Abram. 

Peshke. 
[Stands  near  the  stove,  distraught.] 


In  the  Dark  203 

Abram. 
[Goes  slowly  out,  keeping  his  gaze  on  Peshke. 
Silence.] 

Fayge. 
Hu,    hu  .  .  .  Cold  ...  Ah,    Youth,    Youth  ! .  .  . 

Beautiful,    sunny    Youth  ! .  .  .  [After    a    pause.] 
Peshke,  you're  hungry.     Start  a  fire  in  the  stove. 

Peshke. 
No,  granny,  I'm  not  hungry. 

Fayge. 
I  can  tell  by  the  trembling  of  your  voice. 

Peshke. 
Really,  granny,  I'm  not  hungry. 

Fayge. 
Youth  !  .  .  .  Hu,  hu  .  .  .  Beautiful,  sunny  Youth! 
.  . .  [An  oppressive  silence.] 

Faive. 
[Enters.    He  is  frozen.    Places  on  the  table 
a  small  part  of  a  loaf  of  black  bread.    Paces 
to  and  fro.] 

Fayge. 
Is  that  Faive  ? 


204  In  the  Dark 

Faive. 
[Silent.    Sits  down  by  the  tabkj  his  head 
resting  on  his  hand.] 

Peshke. 
[Looks  at  Faive  from  where  she  stands,  near 
the  stove.] 

Fayge. 

[Arising.] 
Faive  ?    You  just  came,  didn't  you  ?    Peshke, 
that  was  your  father,  wasn't  it  ? 

Peshke. 
Yes. 

Fayge. 
Make  the  fire,  Peshke.    Did  you  bring  anything, 
Faive  ?    You  must  be  hungry  .  .  .  Peshke  hasn't 
had  a  bite,  either. 

Faive. 
There's  bread  on  the  table. 

Fayge. 
Bread  —  bread  ...  Of  what  use  is  it  when  .  .  . 
There  may  be  plenty  of  bread,  but .  .  . 

Faive. 
I  beg  you,  mother,  let  me  rest  a  little. 


In  the  Dark  205 

Fayge. 
Your  mother's  blind  eyes  hurt.    Your  mother's 
old  heart  grieves  .  .  .  Your  young  life  is  fading 
away  .  .  .  And  Peshke  is  a  shadow. 

Peshke. 
Don't  worry  about  me,  granny. 

Fayge. 
True,  you've  brought  bread  ...  If  only  you  had 
brought  with  it  a  smiling  face  —  a  couple  of  cheer- 
ful words  .  .  .  Hu,  hu.    It's  cold  .  .  .  Without  these 
bread  is  poison. 

Faive. 
Don't  torture  me  with  your  words,  mother  ! 

Fayge. 
There's  bread  on  the  table.  Why  don't  you  eat  ? 
[She  goes  over  to  Faive  and  puts  her  hands  on  his 
shoulders.]  You're  silent .  .  .  You  don't  speak  a 
word  .  .  .  That  frightens  me  most  of  all  .  .  .  Why 
are  you  both  silent  ?  A  house  with  people  in  it, 
and  not  a  word  .  .  .  It's  hard  to  bear  silence  in  a 
house  where  there  are  people.  [Takes  a  few  steps 
back.]  1  beg  you,  look  cheerful.  Don't  degrade 
the  bread  ...  A  table  is  an  altar,  and  the  bread  is 
its  holy  sacrifice  .  .  .  Don't  degrade  it .  .  . 


2o6  In  the  Dark 

Faive. 
[Looks  at  his  mother  with  anger  in  his  eyes,] 

Fayge. 
You  answer  nothing  ...  I  don't  know  what  I 
can  say  to  you  ...  I  can't  imagine  what's  on  your 
mind  .  .  .  When  you  curse,  I  understand  .  .  .  When 
you  beat,  I  feel  what  is  the  matter  .  .  .  But  when 
you  don't  utter  a  sound  .  .  .  One  thing,  though,  — 
don't  you  pour  out  your  sea  of  troubles  on  the  head 
of  your  poor  Peshke  !  She  has  enough.  Peshke  ! 
Where  are  you  ?  [Goes  over  to  Faive  and  caresses 
him.]    Vent  it  all  on  me,  on  me  ! 


Faive. 
[Hides  his  head  in  his  arms] 


Fayge. 
Your  heart  is  more  grieved  than  usual.  Spare 
your  child  .  .  .  Let  her  take  her  own  way  .  .  . 
Faive,  confide  in  me  .  .  .  I'm  your  mother  .  .  . 
Remember,  when  you  were  a  child,  how  I  used  to 
hold  you  in  my  lap.  I  bathed  you  in  my  tears. 
And  there  in  my  lap  you  would  laugh  and  cry. 
Tell  me  now,  too,  what  ails  you.  I'll  listen,  as  I 
used  to  then.  I'll  listen  gladly  .  .  .  And  if  I'll  be 
able,  I'll  weep  with  my  blind  eyes  .  .  . 


In  the  Dark  207 

Faive. 
[Sicddenly  arises  j  and  cries  outj  his  features 
distorted  with  pain.] 
Mamma  !  Mamma  ! 

[Remains  standings  with  head  bowed.] 

Fayge. 

[In  a  tremulous  voice] 
That's  how  you  cried  when  I  could  still  see  you, 
long  ago,  —  when  I  cradled  you  in  my  arms  .  .  . 
Speak  on  .  .  .  Speak  on  .  .  .  You  couldn't  say  more 
than  "mamma"  then  .  .  .  you  couldn't .  .  .  Speak, 
speak  on  ! 

Faive. 
[Controls  himself.    Takes  a  deep  breath.] 
N-no.    I  can't . . . 

[He  leaves] 

Fayge. 

Whither  are  you  taking  your  sorrows,  my  child  ! 
[Remains  standing  in  the  middle  of  the  room.] 

Peshke. 
[Rushes  out  into  the  street  and  comes  back 
directly] 

Fayge. 
Who^sthat? 


2o8  In  the  Dark 

Peshke. 
It's  I. 

[Silence.  Finds  a  rope,  and  while  the  old 
woman  is  speaking,  throws  it  around  the 
pipes  which  lead  from  the  small  iron  stove 
to  the  chimney,  near  the  door  to  the  second 
room.  With  trembling  hands  she  makes  a 
noose.] 

Fayge. 
The  bread  lies  on  the  table,  accursed.  The  sea 
of  sorrow  has  been  poured  out  upon  it  ...  It  is 
sprinkled  with  gall .  .  .  Who  can  touch  it  ?  .  .  . 
Who  can  think  of  eating  now  ?  It  seems  as  if  the 
walls  are  crumbling  about  my  head  .  .  .  Peshke, 
what  are  you  doing  ? 

Peshke. 
I'm  dreaming,  granny. 

Fayge. 
And  what  are  you  dreaming,  my  darling  ? 


Peshke. 
I'm  dreaming  that  Ufe  is  easier  and  happier. 
[She  falls  upon  the  old  woman^s  neck] 


In  the  Dark  209 

Fayge. 
My  child,  you^re  trembling. 

Peshke. 

[Kisses  Fayge.] 
I'm  dreaming,  granny  .  .  .  / 

Fayge. 

[Kisses  Peshke.] 
What  are  you  dreaming,  darling  ? 


Peshke. 
That  my  youth  won't  always  be  as  wretched 
as  now. 

[Both  remain  in  embrace.    Silence.] 


Fayge. 
Why  is  your  heart  pounding  so,  my  child  ? 
Strong,  yet  restless  ? 

Peshke. 
From  gladness,  granny. 

[Silence.  Peshke  releases  herself  from  the  old 
woman.  She  goes  on  tip-toe  to  the  table  and 
begins  to  turn  down  the  light  of  the  lamp 
slowly  J  so  that  Fayge  shall  not  notice  it,] 


2IO  In  the  Dark 

Fayge. 
[Stands  in  the  middle  of  the  cellar.    Speaks 
as  if  to  herself] 
The  light's  dying  out .  .  .  The  light's  dying  out 
.  .  .  Dying  out .  .  . 


SLOW  CURTAIN 


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